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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29062953">Montague Street (1876-1878)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519'>Cerdic519</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Diaries Of Sherlock Holmes [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Frozen (Disney Movies), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Tangled (2010)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Assassination, Cake, Circus, England (Country), F/M, Framing Story, Gay Sex, Justice, London, M/M, Murder, Muteness, Organized Crime, Politics, Russia, Secret Messages, The Romans, Theft, Trains, Victorian, Wine, Writers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-04-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 08:27:42</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>74,455</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29062953</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Their first home together. Mr. Vamberry finds that his missing case of wine ties in to a murder, Vittoria the Circus Belle is nearly killed, Sherlock solves his first case for Tobias Gregson, and in the old Russian woman case he acquires the useful friendship of the gangst.... entrepreneur Mr. Richard Kuznetsov. 'Seventy-Seven sees the two 'coining it' in the Andover case, a body in the wrong part of the Thames, a cocksure young man who ties up the wrong victim, a knocker-up is angry with Sherlock, a man is killed by seemingly divine wrath, the 'Sultan of Turkey' case which worries John, a literary case which inspires the doctor to pen his and his friend's adventures, and a hair-raising case involving a man who does not talk. The next year brings Sherlock's sister and a cipher case, a snobbish woman who is gulled into saying what she thinks, the Ricoletti murder which, sadly, brings the detective's unpleasant brother Randall into their lives, Mr. Langdale Pike who talks about questions and answers, a case involving fish-net stockings and kippers (among other things!) and the theft of Mrs. Farinotsh's opal tiara – which last sees the two suddenly threatened with homelessness.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Eugene Fitzherbert | Flynn Rider/Kristoff, Sherlock Holmes &amp; John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Diaries Of Sherlock Holmes [3]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2112249</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Contents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tipsylex/gifts">Tipsylex</a>.</li>



    </ul><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Contents page.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><span class="u">1876 (cont.)</span><br/>19. MR. VAMBERRY'S MISSING CASE<br/><i>London</i><br/>20. HELL'S BELLE (Vittoria the Circus Belle)<br/><i>London</i><br/>21. THE GREGSON INHERITANCE <br/><i>London</i><br/>22. EKATERINA OR ELENA? (the old Russian woman)<br/><i>London</i></p><p><span class="u">1877</span><br/>23. ROT AND ASSES (the Andover case)<br/><i>Andover, Hampshire</i><br/>24. THYME AND TIDE<br/><i>Teddington, Middlesex</i><br/>25. EASY RIDER<br/><i>Uxbridge, Middlesex</i><br/>26. MR. BROOKS, KNOCKER-UP <br/><i>London</i><br/>27. DIES IRAE (the aluminium crotch)<br/>Richmond-upon-Thames, Surrey<br/>28. FLIGHT OF THE HALBERDS (the 'Sultan of Turkey')<br/><i>Millwall, London</i><br/>29. FROM THE HORSE'S MOUTH<br/><i>Norwich, Norfolk</i><br/>30. SILENT KNIGHT<br/><i>London</i></p><p><span class="u">1878</span><br/>31. BUILDING BRIDGES <br/><i>London</i><br/>32. CADENCE AND CREAM CAKE <br/><i>London</i><br/>33. THE RICOLETTI MURDER <br/><i>London</i><br/>34. QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS <br/><i>London</i><br/>35. POETIC JUSTICE <br/><i>Chartley, Staffordshire</i><br/>36. HIGH-SPEED THEFT (Mrs. Farinotsh's opal tiara)<br/><i>London</i></p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Contents</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>October 1876. Sherlock's and John's first case from Montague Street. A case of wine goes missing from the wine-merchant Mr. Vamberry's delivery-cart – is it a simple case of theft or something rather more sinister?</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Watson is very interested in history and, prior to our moving into Montague Street, he researched the area for some strange reason (one might have thought that he would have saved his valuable head-space for medical matters, but then I supposed that not everyone could be me). I shall include his writings here because of observations that some people later made, in that Montague Street today (1936) seems an unlikely setting for gentlemen seeking accommodation in our capital city. It is – I went back there to check – as it was six decades ago part of the London estates owned as is much of Bloomsbury by Mr. Herbrand Russell better known as the Duke of Bedford, and derives its name from one of his ancestors Simon de Montagu, who in turn took his surname from the Normandy village of Montaigu-les-Bois. The street runs parallel to and just west of the more famous Bedford Place, travelling but a few hundred yards from the south-western corner of Russell Square (yes, the same Russell Square which on its eastern side connects with a certain Guilford Street!) to Great Russell Street in the south. </p><p>A certain medical personage reiterating that I was now within easy walking distance of the family home was <i>not</i> appreciated. I gave him such a look!</p><p>The western side of Montague Street is overlooked by the ever-expanding British Museum, but this only faces out onto the road at one place and the street itself is still mostly residential. We were fortunate in that as well as the nearby Russell Square our house also had access to the much smaller but private Montague Gardens Park where there was no danger of meeting relatives of any persuasion, especially those armed with deadly stories! Sadly our house is no longer there; it was demolished when the Astor Hotel was extended.</p><p>Our landlady for those two happy years the estimable Mrs. Aliana MacAndrew had inherited her property from a distant cousin and, following the passing of her husband, had decided to live in a small part of it and rent out the remainder. Even though our stay there was cut short after only two years, I always look back on the time with fondness. A real home with a good friend.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>I should say here that I did make an effort to keep the main room that I shared with Watson today – I did! – but I found it difficult, although it was certainly not bad enough to warrant the maids complaining that they deserved danger-money before crossing to my side of the room. Nor that whatever Moira said that time she came round (at least that was better than Mother coming, much as I was sure she would later be getting a full report), there was a clear dividing line where Watson's half ended and mine began. Besides, I could pick my way around easily enough then so could he.</p><p>The main room was small and our bedrooms frankly minuscule, but the excellent location more than made up for that. I was I suppose lucky in that one bed was slightly longer than the other (both took up at least a quarter of the room they were in), so with my taller frame Watson generously agreed that I could have that one. A plus point for him was that our rooms were just fifteen minutes' walk from the surgery, which with his straitened means was I knew very important. We also both enjoyed the hearty meals that Mrs. MacAndrew laid on for us. She told Watson that I looked 'braw skinny as a rake' and that she seemed determine to put some flesh on those bones. I supposed that it was my height – seven inches taller than the average man at the time and two more than my friend – and slender build, plus my perhaps occasionally less than full attention to my appearance which made me appear thus. </p><p>One of the good things about Watson was that he did not ask questions, even when he was sometimes clearly very curious. I had once asked him to fetch me a book that I had left in a desk drawer, only later realizing that I kept the late Lord Tobias's hat and pipe in there. That I wore headwear more suited to hunting wild animals and had a pipe but never smoked must have been puzzling enough to the fellow, but that I kept what must have seemed like spares in such a strange place must have perplexed him still more. I also knew, because I had caught him looking at me curiously several times, that he wondered what I actually did all day. Yet he did not push, and I was grateful for that.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>In September I went round to see Mark and had a surprise when I saw who opened the door.</p><p>
  <i>”Tiny?”</i>
</p><p>It was indeed my brother's lover Mr. Anthony Little, in what from the size of him had to have been a tailored footman's uniform. He was clearly pleased to see me as he knew that I had helped set him up with Mark, and before I could take evasive action I found myself embraced in the sort of affectionate hug that even Mother would have been proud of.</p><p>Fortunately the behemoth let me go while I still had some air in my lungs, and as always looked embarrassed in a way that immediately made me want to comfort the fellow. Mark had mentioned that he dreaded what he called the Sad Face as Tiny would pull it to get what he wanted which was always to 'bowl' rather than 'bat', because.... and now I was thinking of my own brother naked! Ugh!</p><p>“Mr. Mark had to go in for some thing or other, sir”, Tiny said. “Do you want me to tell him you called, Mr. Holmes sir?”</p><p>“Thank you, Tiny”, I smiled. “That would be good of you. Are you settling in well here?”</p><p>“Settling into Mr. Mark several times a night and every morning before work, sir”, he said cheerfully (I winced at his frankness). “The butler Shaw didn't like me but the other staff told Mr. Mark and he gave him his cards. That was good of him, and I thanked him proper like. He was squealing a bit when he got into his cab but he should be all right for the next round this evening.”</p><p>I did not need to be any sort of detective to know that it was not a round of toast to which the behemoth was referring there.</p><p>“Do try to leave my brother in one piece, Tiny”, I smiled.</p><p>“Why, sir?”</p><p>Damnation, he had me there. Why indeed?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>The Watson situation started to change a few days into October when LeStrade came round to consult me on a case. Fortunately he had abandoned the frankly bizarre experiment of having a beard despite his bald head; his wife Valerie had done well to put up with the horror for a whole week before telling him to get rid of it. I had actually been surprised by his visit; not that it had happened – Mrs. MacAndrew was baking, after all – but that he had actually had a good reason to drop by when Mrs. MacAndrew was baking.</p><p>Yes, Gregson too had been round earlier and for the flimsiest of excuses, but I was sure that that was Watson's cynicism rubbing off on me!</p><p>My friend returned and mentioned having passed LeStrade downstairs.</p><p>“That is Sergeant Gawain LeStrade from the local station”, I said without looking up from my book. “Despite his name there is not an ounce of French blood in him, nor for that matter anything remotely Arthurian. He is London working-class and proud of it as I am sure his attitude makes clear to everyone that he encounters. A most intelligent fellow despite his rough appearance; he should go far provided his superiors rate intelligence above smooth talking or familial connections. Or subtlety, for he has none. Fortunately for him his immediate superior is Inspector MacDonald, who is disposed to hate all Mankind equally.”</p><p>“What was a London sergeant doing here?” he asked curiously.</p><p>“He wished to consult me on a case”, I said.</p><p>“Consult you?” he said incredulously. </p><p>I scowled. That had sounded almost insulting. Who else would LeStrade wish to consult away from a police-station?</p><p>“I <i>am</i> a consulting-detective”, I said pointedly. </p><p>“So you actually solve crimes for a living?” he asked, seemingly fascinated. “I know that you solved that murder at Doctor Agar's and the one up at Tarleton, and of course that mess back in Oxford, but I did not know that one could make a living out of that sort of thing. Do you actually go out and look for clues?”</p><p>“I am a consulting-detective”, I said not at all haughtily. “Not a bloodhound.”</p><p>I had been maybe a tad too sharp with him there, as he blushed and half-turned away. For some inexplicable reason I felt annoyed at my own behaviour, rational as it most certainly was. Damnation!</p><p>“I do not waste my energy chasing criminals hither and yon”, I said loftily. “The likes of LeStrade bring their problems to me and I think about them for a while, then tell them the answer. Sometimes I do have to go out and make inquiries which is most tiresome, but at this moment in time most matters that I am involved with are fairly minor.”</p><p>“That is impossible!” he said hotly. “You cannot solve crimes by merely sitting in a chair and thinking about it!”</p><p>I looked at him thoughtfully for a moment, and I caught a definite shudder as I did so. Growing up with a dozen older siblings had meant that I had long perfected a look that could have outstared a python. He reddened yet again and yet again I instinctively felt bad. What the blazes was it with him? I had never had this sort of reaction with anyone else.</p><p>“You have a new patient who is more than well-off”, I observed, pulling myself together with an effort. “They live some distance from here. The man, or possibly his wife, is miserly and they keep a poor class of servant. They paid cash today which was most unusual for them, your surgery has had dealings with them before over non-payment of their bills, and they are possessed of at least one cat.”</p><p>He stared at me in astonishment. </p><p>“Who told you that?” I demanded. “Yes, I went to attend on Madeleine, the daughter of the ghastly Carrington-Byrnes. Her father was one of those who all but hung over me throughout her examination which was damnably annoying; if he did not trust me then he could have just asked me to leave. And yes, the surgery has had to send them letters from its lawyers when they were late paying their bills on several occasions and had only agreed to continue with them if they paid cash from now on. But how did you know?”</p><p>“Your trousers, to start with”, I replied to his evident confusion. </p><p>He sat down opposite me.</p><p>“Explain”, he demanded, adding a belated “please” at my raised eyebrow. </p><p>I sighed and put down my book.</p><p>“You wore your best trousers and had them pressed before you left this morning”, I said. “You only do that when you are attending one of your richer patients. You also asked our estimable landlady to borrow that useful little brush which she has that removes cat hair most effectively. Your eyes are still red as you do not respond well to the presence of a feline in your vicinity, even the cat-hair as you removed it upon your return.”</p><p>He was clearly surprised at that last, and I belatedly remembered that his allergy to the creatures had been something he had never actually mentioned to me. It had been in mother's copious file on him that Moira had gathered on her instructions. Oops.</p><p>“And the miserliness?” he asked, mercifully not pursuing my inexplicable omniscience on matters feline.</p><p>“All the best houses have gas-lighting now, yet your hat shows a tallow mark that was not there this morning”, I said. “Hence despite their wealth they have chosen not to spend money updating their lighting, plus their servants were careless with your property. Also you only take a cab when both you can afford it and your call is some distance from here. It has been raining on and off all day yet your coat is almost dry. Therefore you took a cab home and since you left your wallet behind this morning in a fit of absent-mindedness, they paid cash. Since that conflicts with their miserly nature, they would only have done so had they felt that they had no choice.”</p><p>I most graciously did not smirk at his annoyance that I knew so much, although I may have smiled very slightly.</p><p>“What did the sergeant want?” he asked. “A new case for you?”</p><p>“Not exactly”, I said. “He came primarily to brief me on some developments concerning a murder inquiry that I have been assisting him with.”</p><p>“And did you identify the murderer?” he asked.</p><p>“Not yet”, I admitted. </p><p>“Oh.”</p><p>I observed him carefully. He clearly found my work fascinating, and he was pleasant enough company as well as a decent human being (although not, as Moira had quite unfairly remarked, 'because he has not been driven to murder you yet').</p><p>“The sergeant did have another related matter that he thought might interest me, though”, I said. “It is the Case of the Missing Case!”</p><p>He looked at me in confusion.</p><p>“It is a very small thing”, I said, “but the gentleman who stands to be affected if it is not cleared up is a good friend of LeStrade, surprising as that seems given his nature. It is probably nothing, but I have a nose for these things and I do not like it. I may even have to leave the house and make some inquiries.”</p><p>He almost smiled at my annoyance at that, before he caught himself. I scowled; perhaps he was not that good company after all.</p><p>“The facts are on the surface few and simple”, I went on, looking suspiciously at him. “The sergeant's friend is one Mr. Martin Vamberry, a wine-merchant based in the docks. He supplies beer and wine, mostly the latter, to a number of public houses and private clubs in the eastern half of the city. His business has been doing very well which is why this is so serious.”</p><p>“Serious?” he asked. “How?”</p><p>“Yesterday morning Mr. Vamberry sent out his deliveries on his two carts as per usual”, I said. “Everything seemed in order until that evening when a Mr. Thomas Wilberforce, owner of the Elephant &amp; Castle public house in Shadwell, called round and claimed that he had only received two of the three cases of wine that he had paid for. Mr. Vamberry checked his warehouse thoroughly but could not locate the missing case. To placate his customer he arranged for one of his men to take round a case of superior quality wine that same evening.”</p><p>“It all seems rather dull”, he said dismissively. “Most likely someone made a mistake when doing the order.”</p><p>I sighed and looked pityingly at him.</p><p>“You do not appreciate the seriousness of this case, doctor”, I said firmly. “For someone in Mr. Vamberry's position, his reputation is all-important. If it were bruted about that he were less than honest, he could lose everything.”</p><p>“It is hardly murder”, he muttered. “Just a case of wine.”</p><p>“Murder of a man's reputation”, I said firmly. “Besides, I do not take cases based on their seriousness, and most definitely not on the wealth of those affected despite what some people with money might wish. I take them on whether or not they are interesting. Plus as I said, there is also a connection to the murder that LeStrade is investigating.”</p><p>He clearly felt chastened by my words, which I supposed would have resonated with him in his career. He too would have many of the so-called 'great and good' who were the sort of people one could have cheerfully pushed off Beachy Head if no-one had been looking, or in some cases even if someone had been. For some reason that made me think of certain siblings....</p><p>“Perhaps the landlord of the pub was lying?” he suggested.</p><p>“For one case containing a mere six bottles?” I said disbelievingly. “LeStrade said that they only deliver an order of two or three cases every three months to that establishment; the missing one may have been the most expensive of the three that he should have had but only by a few shillings.”</p><p>“What about the delivery-men?” he asked.</p><p>“Mr. Frederick Sylvester and Mr. Morris Allendale”, I said. “Both decent enough fellows with no real black marks against them; Mr. Allendale is something of an alcoholic but his tastes run to beer, not wine, and he is wise enough to keep such behaviour away from his workplace, especially as Mr. Vamberry has sacked a fellow employee who did not. Mr. Allendale is also courting a local lady so has had to cut back on his consumption as of late, which is probably for the good. Mr. Sylvester has some questionable friends but thankfully that is not a crime or the gaols could not cope! The landlord was absent at the time of their delivery so they left the two cases that they did deliver inside the lock-up in the back and raised the marker to show that they had been. They delivered at around six-thirty in the morning; the landlord's wife came out and took the cases in shortly after nine.”</p><p>“The delivery men did not know that there should have been three cases?” he asked.</p><p>“According to Mr. Vamberry's statement the system is that the supervisor marks the boxes according to the order of delivery”, I explained. “He is certain he marked three boxes with a number '1' the night before – it was the first delivery of the day – but the men only found two at the back of the cart. The cart was also searched but nothing was found.”</p><p>“Who is the supervisor?” he asked.</p><p>“Mr. Richard Sylvester, brother to the delivery man of the same name”, I said. “He is a rather more interesting character than his sibling as he provides the connection to the sergeant's murder, case being one of several people who owed  the dead man money. However he stayed late at the warehouse doing inventory – there were witnesses – and did not leave until ten o' clock whereas the murder happened between eight and nine. The medical evidence for that is quite definite.”</p><p>“Then it is all very strange”, he observed.</p><p>“Indeed”, I said. “In the circumstances I think it advisable for me to pay a visit to Mr. Vamberry's warehouse. Would you like to accompany me?”</p><p>He was clearly surprised at my offer but accepted, and we fixed for an early departure the following morning.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>Mr. Vamberry's warehouse was in one of the less salubrious areas of the docks (which was saying something!). We entered a cavernous building in which two large carts were being laden with boxes. A thin and unkempt tow-headed fellow in his forties stood between them checking off items on a clipboard, and spared us a dark look. </p><p>“Mr. Richard Sylvester”, I observed quietly. “Not the most pleasant of characters according to LeStrade. We will go straight to Mr. Vamberry's offices.”</p><p>We handed our card to the secretary who took it in. She had barely returned however when the door burst open and a tall blond fellow burst through, having to duck his head to avoid hitting the lintel. He scowled at both of us before striding quickly away. A similar-looking gentleman appeared in the doorway and sighed heavily.</p><p>“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson”, he said bowing courteously. “Martin Vamberry at your service. Gawain says that you may be able to help me.”</p><p>He escorted us into his inner sanctum, a small and rather stuffy room with only a narrow and dirty slatted ventilation window on one side. He waited for us both to sit before taking his chair.</p><p>“I shall certain try to help you, Mr. Vamberry”, I said, noting out of the corner of my eye that Watson was surprised at the warmth in my voice. “Sergeant LeStrade was kind enough to provide me with some of the facts of the case and I decided that viewing the <i>mise en scène</i> might be beneficial to my understanding of the events that transpired. May I inquire as to the identity of the gentleman leaving in such a hurry?”</p><p>The wine-merchant sighed in a put-upon way.</p><p>“My brother Peter”, he said, sounding quite bitter at having a sibling (again, I could empathize!). “My mother wanted the three of us to run the company jointly but she died giving birth to our other brother Benedict, and my father rapidly realized that Peter had little or no head for business. When Father moved back to the Netherlands I got the business and they each got a sum of money, Ben investing most of his back into the company. Peter has spent his way through his own inheritance and has started demanding his 'rightful' share of the business on top of it. As you saw, he did not take the iteration of my refusal well.”</p><p>I thought that that was undoubtedly motive. But what about means and opportunity?</p><p>“Are you the full owner of the business, sir?” I asked.</p><p>“Not any more”, he said. “When I moved to this place it was over twice the size of the old one. To afford it I had to turn over a large part of the business in shares to various banks and lenders; that was when Ben invested to help out although I needed a lot more. We are doing well enough but any sort of bad publicity would do us great harm. That is why one misplaced case of wine is so important.”</p><p>“Misplaced?” Watson asked.</p><p>“Yes”, Mr. Vamberry said “It was found at the back of the warehouse this morning, under a tarpaulin. I have no idea how it got there; I was quite sure that we had searched the place thoroughly. I sent it round to Joe – Mr. Wilberforce, the tavern owner whom we inadvertently short-changed – as an additional apology. But I am fearful that however the error occurred it may happen again, further tarnishing my good name.”</p><p>“Did you check the case first?” I asked. </p><p>The wine-merchant looked puzzled.</p><p>“I opened it”, he said, “and checked each bottle. It was definitely the missing case, although it was not marked with a '1' as the others had been.”</p><p>I thought that the whole thing seemed frankly bizarre. No-one except the tavern-owner seemed to have gained, and even to him a case of six bottles of wine was barely worth the expense of sorting the mistake out. There was definitely something odd going on here.</p><p>“Is it fair to say, then, that it would be in your brother Peter's interests to damage the business”, I asked, “so as to make your creditors nervous.”</p><p>Mr. Vamberry looked shocked at the idea but, I noted, did not deny it. I looked around the room.</p><p>“Is this where Mr. Richard Sylvester was working on the night of the murder?” I asked.</p><p>The wine-merchant seemed to shake himself back to reality.</p><p>“Yes”, he said. “Gawain asked me about that, but as you can see the only way out is through the main warehouse.”</p><p>“They might have been too busy to spot him leaving?” Watson suggested. </p><p>I thought that a good observation but Mr. Vamberry shook his head,</p><p>“The men are entitled to a half-hour break which they take in three turns between eight and half-past nine”, he said. “Because the warehouse is so cold they always come into the outer office where my secretary works during the day; they light the fire and play cards there. I do not mind provided they avoid this room; I keep all my important papers in here. The only other exit is that tiny window and as you can see there is no way that anyone, not even someone as thin as Mr. Sylvester, could possibly have fitted through <i>that</i>.”</p><p>I suddenly had an idea. If I was right then that gentleman's alibi had to be a strong one.</p><p>“Who was the person who saw him leave?” I asked.</p><p>“Teddy Bartlett, the local bobby”, Mr. Vamberry said, clearly surprised at that question. “He saw him coming out of the door just after ten. But how did you know that? He only mentioned it to me today when he dropped round, and I was planning to tell Gawain after I was done here.”</p><p>I thought for some time. I could begin to see just how this had been done now, but proving it might well be another matter. </p><p>“When you sent out the replacement case on the evening in question”, I said eventually, “who decided that Mr. Frederick Sylvester would take it?”</p><p>“He offered”, Mr. Vamberry said. “He was in my office to tell me about the discovery of the lost case when Joe burst in. The Sylvesters live but two streets over from the tavern so it was not far out of his way, and it was close to the end of his shift. I allowed him to go a little early as well, as that was only fair.”</p><p>“I see”, I said (and I did).</p><p>“I know that it is none of my business”, Mr. Vamberry said nervously, “but after what Gawain said, are you thinking that the missing case and that terrible murder are in some way related?”</p><p>I squinted at him.</p><p>“One more question”, I said, noting with surprise that Watson had spotted my evasion of our host's question. “Has anything else gone missing from the office of late?”</p><p>“No, sir.”</p><p>Aha! Hesitation!</p><p>“Cushions or pillows?” I asked.</p><p>The effect on the wine-merchant was electric. He went deathly pale.</p><p>“How... how could you know that?” he gasped.</p><p>I smiled knowingly. It is a good thing that I was never smug at times like this; I really cannot abide smug people. Watson always agreed with me when I said that to him, nodding most fervently.</p><p>“It is my business to know things, sir”, I said. “Often things that other people might not wish me to know. We shall return with Sergeant LeStrade at nine this evening when I hope to have this case wrapped up for you. You might consider extending an invitation to Mr. Wilberforce to attend, as it was the theft of his property which led to this. But you can tell him that he does not need to if he does not so wish; I would not wish him to worry unnecessarily.”</p><p>I stood, bowed and left. Watson scurried after me.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>The ride back to Montague Street was uneventful although my friend was clearly burning with curiosity. I felt sure that he would have questions once we were back in our rooms, but when our cab came to a half there there was a smart carriage drawn up outside, one of those with far more ornamentation than was necessary. I sighed in exasperation.</p><p>“My brother Hilton has come to call”, he growled. “Damnation!”</p><p>He looked at me uncertainly. He knew that I was possessed of far too many siblings and had clearly reasoned from my reaction that this was not one of the better ones. In fact it was arguably the worst, or at least the joint-worst.</p><p>“Do you need me there for moral support?” he ventured. “Or would you prefer me to take a walk for an hour or so?”</p><p>I thought that uncommonly obliging of him.</p><p>“The latter, unfortunately”, I said ruefully. “Hilton is doubtless 'checking me out' in the hope that he can find something to use against me. He is my second-eldest brother; he is always trying to get one or other of us disinherited on some pretext or other.”</p><p>He nodded to me and walked off towards Russell Square. I had been lucky to find him, I suppose, but then he too was fortunate to have acquired such a brilliant and supremely modest room-mate.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>I made a mental note to buy Mrs. MacAndrew a bunch of flowers for having a large plateful of bacon delivered within moments of Hilton's blessed departure, which could not have come soon enough. Rather unusually there was also a breakfast meal for dinner that evening, and Watson said that he did not really feel like bacon so passed all his over to me.</p><p>I had been <i>really</i> lucky to find him.</p><p>We set off for the docks in good time but we had to wait outside the warehouse for the best part of half an hour. I was beginning to suspect that LeStrade was not going to show, and Watson was really unfair to have suggested that there may have been a major cake theft delaying him. Fortunately a familiar bald figure finally came hurrying along the quayside, panting heavily. </p><p>“A stabbing in Soho”, he explained between gasps. “It was all hands on deck at the station.”</p><p>“Did you find the information that I asked for?” I asked. </p><p>He regained his breath before answering.</p><p>“No connection”, he said, “though you were right about the debts. But you can't think.....”</p><p>“We had better go in”, I said. “Doubtless we have already kept poor Mr. Vamberry waiting far too long. Your men are coming later?”</p><p>“About five minutes behind me”, he said, now openly dubious, “but there's no....”</p><p>“Excellent!” I exclaimed and hurried through the door, not missing the look of exasperation that my two friends exchanged.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>I could not help but notice that Mr. Wilberforce, the landlord of the tavern in the case, looked distinctly uneasy at the sergeant's arrival. </p><p>“Be not afraid Mr. Wilberforce”, I said. “I did say that your attendance here was not obligatory. I merely thought that you would like to understand how your missing case of wine ties into a murder.”</p><p>The fellow's face turned quite pale. Whatever reassurance I had been aiming for, that last word had undone it most effectively.</p><p>“M... m.... murder, sir?” he squeaked. </p><p>“Murder most foul”, I said gravely before turning to Mr. Vamberry. “Sorry I am to say it, sir, but the police will shortly be arriving to your warehouse in order to arrest the brothers Sylvester; one for murder, the other for aiding and abetting. The penalty for both is quite rightly death by hanging.”</p><p>“Sir that is impossible!” the wine-merchant said firmly. “We have witnesses who will state on the Holy Bible that Mr. Richard Sylvester never left that office.”</p><p>“I do hope not”, I said gravely. “Perjury, even when unwitting, is a grave offence in the eyes of the law.”</p><p>The wine-merchant seemed to be trying to get some words out but failed. I sat down and stretched out my legs.</p><p>“I will now tell you how it was done”, I said. “First, the motive. LeStrade confirmed to me that Mr. Richard Sylvester was in dire financial straits. His only hope of relief was the death of the moneylender Mr. Berwick, which would have resulted in a delay before the debt could be transferred elsewhere. He knew however that as a major borrower he himself would immediately come under suspicion, so he arranged a most cunning alibi.”</p><p>“On the morning in question Mr. Richard Sylvester arrives early at work and hides one of the three cases of wine destined for the Elephant &amp; Castle public house. The choice of your establishment, Mr. Wilberforce, was by no means accidental as I will shortly explain. He knows that he can rely on his brother to make sure that the missing case is safely stored away. It is imperative that it is discovered only at the right time, after the hue and cry has died down.”</p><p>“Why?” Mr. Vamberry asked. </p><p>I ignored him.</p><p>“He does one other thing before everyone else arrives”, I went on. “He knows that there are cushions, pillows and sheets in one of the outer office cupboards for when people work into the night. He takes a couple of these from the cupboard and hides them behind the couch in the inner office. The day then proceeds as normal until Mr. Wilberforce as expected arrives at five o' clock and quite justifiably demands to know why he has been short-changed. Acting on the recommendation of Mr. Richard Sylvester you, Mr. Vamberry, agree to furnish him with a superior case of wine which Mr. Frederick Sylvester, who is most fortuitously to hand, will deliver when he leaves shortly.”</p><p>“How could you know that I would arrive here at that time?” Mr. Wilberforce demanded indignantly.</p><p>I smiled at him.</p><p>“Your statement to the sergeant mentioned that you were returning from your sister's house which you said is in Southend”, I explained. “You also stated that you visit there on the first full weekend every two months and always combine these visits with business dealings which lead to your being away from the house at an early hour, returning in time for supper. I would wager that at some time in the past someone, possibly your good lady wife, must have mentioned that to Mr. Frederick Sylvester which led to the brothers fixing on you as a suitable target. They banked, correctly, on you realizing that you were a case short and coming round to demand restitution immediately upon your return.”</p><p>Mr. Wilberforce blushed.</p><p>“To continue”, I said. “Witnesses reported that Mr. Frederick Sylvester left with the extra case of wine just before six o' clock. That was of course untrue.”</p><p>“But he did”, Mr. Vamberry protested.</p><p>I shook my head.</p><p>“What actually happened was that before leaving, Mr. Frederick Sylvester went to the main office”, Holmes said calmly. “He was admitted to the room and once you Mr. Vamberry had left, Mr. <i>Richard</i> Sylvester departed wearing his brother's coat. That in itself was unusual as it was a warm day, yet the statements were that he had already buttoned his coat up and had his hat and scarf on. It was already dark outside, the outer office is poorly lit and the secretary had also gone home for the day.”</p><p>“Hang on a minute there!” LeStrade said. “I know the light out there is bad but Frederick Sylvester is twice the girth of his brother. There's no way anyone could mistake those two!”</p><p>Watson gasped as he got it. Clearly some of my innate brilliance must have started to rub off on him.</p><p>“The cushions!” he burst out. </p><p>I beamed at him.</p><p>“Exactly”, I said. “Most annoyingly for Mr. Richard Sylvester no-one then comes forward to state that they saw 'his brother' leave – one seldom gets a witness when one actually needs one! He takes the extra case of wine to the tavern – I believe you expressed annoyance, Mr. Wilberforce, that he left it at the door; now you understand why – then takes his gun, finds and shoots Mr. Berwick, and returns to the warehouse. Mr. Frederick Sylvester remains behind a locked door, for as well as providing his brother's seemingly ironclad alibi he has to wait for the men taking the breaks in the warm outer room to conclude. He then slips out unnoticed between half-past nine and ten.”</p><p>“I noticed LeStrade that in your as ever excellent notes you mentioned that there was a small explosion, possibly a firework going off at about that time. I would wager that that was in fact a distraction caused by Mr. Richard Sylvester so that his brother could leave unnoticed. Our killer then waits until a witness – fortunately for him the local policeman – happens by and makes sure he is seen locking the door, apparently on his way home. He has established the perfect alibi; everyone will swear that he never left the office until ten o' clock and was seen so doing.” </p><p>They were all stunned into silent admiration. Which was not surprising, really.</p><p>“Why did Mr. Frederick Sylvester not just commit the crime himself”, Mr. Wilberforce asked eventually.</p><p>“Family matters”, I said. “Mr. Richard Sylvester did not wish his brother to kill for him, merely to cover up his own dark deeds. Unfortunately for both of them the end result will be the same.”</p><p>“What about proof?” LeStrade asked.</p><p>“Did you get Mr. Richard Sylvester's coat?” I asked.</p><p>“Yes”, he said, handing it over. </p><p>I held it up to the light. </p><p>“He is as good as hung”, I said firmly.</p><p>“But how?” Watson asked. </p><p>I pointed to the front of the coat where a faint orange stain could be made out.</p><p>“That is the same colour of chalk used to mark all the deliveries”, I said. “The only way that he could have got a mark like this is by carrying a case of wine for a considerable distance, something that according to his story he never did. If you look closer, LeStrade, you may notice that there is also a tiny fragment of wood lodged under one of the buttons. I would wager that that matches the wood of the 'missing' case.” </p><p>There was a knock at the door and the wine-merchant's secretary came in without being asked. She was clearly upset.</p><p>“Sir!” she blurted out. “The police have arrived, and they have arrested Mr. Sylvester and his brother!”</p><p>I looked across at Watson but managed not to smirk at my inevitably having been right. Because I would never have done such a thing. Why he looked at me suspiciously like that, I had no idea.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Hell's Belle</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>October 1876. The second case from Montague Street in which sawdust proves to be rather more than just sawdust. And a beautiful woman proves that she can leave disaster in her wake without meaning to.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mentioned elsewhere as the case of Vittoria, the Circus Belle.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Foreword: To explain the political situation at the time of this story, Austria had gained the Kingdom of Lombardy-Venetia in northern Italy after the Napoleonic Wars but the nationalist movements in the middle years of this century had led to the Italian Wars of Independence which had wrested those gains from her. The once-mighty Serene Republic of Venice had also been absorbed into the newly unified Italian Kingdom, nominally after a plebiscite although there had been strong suspicions that that vote had been held at the end of a gun-barrel (99.99% support for annexation seemed a tad high). Those suspicions had only increased when many Venetians had sought new homes elsewhere in the world as a result, as was witnessed by the fact that at a time when London's population had almost doubled in just twenty years, that of <i>La Serenissima</i> had barely changed.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>I suppose that I should have foreseen it, but I had quickly come to realize that several aspects of my life puzzled a room-mate whose work involved reaching diagnoses often on very poor information and more often than not getting blamed for his lack of psychic powers when his patient 'suddenly remembered something afterwards'. However I knew that as well as his intermittent work at the Bloomsbury Surgery he also still had several essays to write as part of his doctorate, so I did not expect him to devote much time to the matter. Let alone that with my family any investigation might unearth who knew what horror; Mother was currently working on 'Scrubs', a story about hospital-cleaners who misused medical equipment in a way that.... please God that I never had to need hospital care after even hearing about that!</p><p>Watson had been lucky enough not to meet Hilton that time he had come around, although during our brief time together thus far I had had the opportunity to point out two of my other brothers to him, Carl whose picture had been in the 'Times' for his having saved the life of a soldier who had collapsed during a training-exercise, and perhaps more problematically Logan who we had seen the other side of Russell Square during a walk. Watson may have never been much of a detective but from the way in which my brother was both limping and yawning, and the fact that he had a clearly eager Ajax almost on top of him and hustling him along to their home for... well, reasons, I was sure that he had worked out what was going on (and more than likely soon to be coming off!). But like most people did back then he said nothing about it, which was a relief.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>My happiness after having solved the Vamberry case lasted little more than a day before disaster struck, in that Mother invited (Commanded) me over for a painfully long weekend. I most definitely caught Watson in a gesture that looked suspiciously like drawing a finger across his neck, and his innocent smile under my glare did not fool me for a moment. However while my weekend passed off surprisingly quietly (thankfully Mother had inflicted 'Scrubs' on Hilton who had dropped by for another free meal on the Friday), Watson's was less so as his brother had unexpectedly visited the capital. Apparently there had been some legal documents that Edinburgh University had requested from London, so important that they had dispatched one of their students to fetch them. </p><p>I knew of course that brothers would always be brothers, so I was not surprised to arrive back to Montague Street and find Watson with a scowl that could have removed paint. He told me that, just as he had been seeing his brother off at the railway-station, the fellow had told him that he had left a going-away present back at the house, to wit a bar of chocolate. Watson had raced home in record time arriving not long before me, only to find that the 'bar' in question was actually a miniature one less that an inch in diameter! And plain chocolate to boot!</p><p>His scowl only deepened when I asked if he had eaten it anyway. I had to ask; it was rare that I could ask a question and be one hundred per cent certain of the answer, especially as he had a slight chocolate stain on his lips from where he had eaten the thing rather too eagerly!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>It was only two days after my return that I had someone call with my next case. It was obviously not LeStrade or Gregson as Mrs. MacAndrew's baking-day was not until Friday..... damnation, Watson was really becoming a bad influence on me! Had he not very occasionally handed me over some of his rashers of bacon on the odd morning or two, I would have had something to say about that!</p><p>No, it was <i>not</i> every single day! There had been that time when he had had to rush off and had been away all morning, so there!</p><p>Our visitor was a nervous fellow in his early thirties whose calling-card stated that he was a Mr. John Smith. I briefly considered whether this might be an alias but despite his absurdly common name I then remembered just why he looked familiar and also why he was wearing a decidedly unpleasant cologne which was both vinegary and overpowering (although 'someone' had not needed to have glanced thankfully at our open window like that). </p><p>“Good afternoon, sir”, I said politely. “Does your fisheries business bring you here today?”</p><p>My friend baulked at my omniscience, but fortunately for him our visitor soon explained all.</p><p>“I own a large processing factory in Lowestoft in Suffolk and we supply London with several varieties of fish, sir”, he explained. “One of my investors is Mr. Holmes's noble father and when I mentioned certain recent, ahem, difficulties that I had been experiencing of late, he recommended you as the person to help me.”</p><p>“Please proceed”, I said, waving him to a chair. “This is my friend and colleague, Doctor Watson.”</p><p>Our visitor nodded to my friend and took a seat. In so doing he gained (or at least failed to lose) several points when compared to some of the people I had had and would have over the years, several of whom looked at my friend as if he was something that the cat had dragged in despite being told not to. For more than one potential client it had been the reason why they had remained <i>potential</i> clients, doubtless to their utter confusion.</p><p>“I should begin by explaining that I have a large house in Essex near Majestic Park on the edge of London”, our visitor said. “I prefer to allow my factory managers up in Suffolk to do things themselves and pay only irregular visits to keep an eye on them, although I visit the distribution centre in London rather more often. What has happened – or rather, what has not yet happened – concerns the circus that was set up in the park last year. It is not that near to my house yet it has had an impact on my life that I could never have foreseen.”</p><p>“The area that the circus moved into had recently been cleared prior to a planned development and this in turn had led to a large influx of foreign workers into the area many of whom were Venetians, who seemingly prefer British to Italian rule. One of these newcomers, a gentleman called Mr. Salvatore Vincenzo, was unable to get work on the site. He therefore applied for work at my London factory which is next to Liverpool Street Station and.... his daughter Vittoria also applied. The work is mundane but it pays a fair wage, and I am said by most to be a decent employer.”</p><p>My eyes narrowed as I noticed the slight hesitation before he mentioned the lady's name. There was definitely something there.</p><p>“I must admit that at the first sight of Vittoria, I fell in love with her”, our visitor continued, blushing fiercely. “Of course I was her employer which put me in a difficult enough position to start with, let alone the ten-year age gap. Matters were further complicated when her father died in that outbreak of winter flu at the start of this year, which caused her to look for additional work elsewhere. Which was where my troubles really began.”</p><p>“Although her sweet nature is wondrous in itself, Vittoria is stunningly beautiful. Indeed when I first declared my interest in her I would have been far from surprised if she had refused me; with her looks she could have had any man in London. It goes without saying that I made it clear when pressing my affections that should she decline them, I would in no way take any action against her afterwards. It was those looks which enabled her to obtain a job at the circus which had once again come to the area. Many such places have a Belle, a girl of outstanding beauty, and the Galliano Circus is no exception. I agreed to amend her hours at the factory so that she could work evenings and the occasional afternoon at the circus, and all seemed set fair.”</p><p>
  <i>(I have to insert here that I found the idea of someone being paid to look beautiful as rather strange, especially as even in my short experience thus far I had seen that someone's exterior and interior did not always match. For example, I would not have described either the late Lord Tobias Hawke or my recent acquaintance Mr. Francis Charlton as conventionally attractive yet both men had shone with a righteousness that was beyond mere beauty. On the other hand I had heard more than one person describe my brother Randall as handsome – although notably, always before they met him and discovered his true character whereon they had always revised their opinion somewhat).</i>
</p><p>“Unfortunately it was at that moment that my troubles increased”, our visitor went on, “in the form of a young jackanapes called Mr. Roderick West. In the ring he is Roderigo Occidentale, the Knife-man From Hell, and he made it clear from when he first saw Vittoria that he wished to be considered as a suitor for her affections. She was flattered – he is I will admit not ill-looking and is in his early twenties; I saw him one time when he was out of the atrocious get-up that he wears for his act – but she chose not to return his affections as she thought him rather too prideful. However he has recently been pressuring the circus-manager, a Mr. Pines, to have Vittoria included in his act. The thought of that horrible man throwing knives at my... that dear girl – I cannot and will not allow it!”</p><p>“The question is”, I said consideringly, “does Miss Vincenzo wish to allow it?”</p><p>“She does not”, our visitor said ruefully, “but she needs the job in order to afford to keep her house and I very much fear that she may feel forced to yield. However I do not trust the fellow.”</p><p>I pressed my fingers together. I knew this fellow only from what Father had said of him, and I was already beginning to sense that there was more to what had happened than he had told me thus far. Then again he was a London businessman, which meant that he was possessed of what I had best heard described as 'a flexible sense of honour'. Likely as 'flexible' as the India-Rubber Man at Miss Vincenzo's circus, I suspected!</p><p>“This is difficult”, I said. “No crime has been committed as of yet, but if your fears about this fellow are justified then we may be looking at a potential case of murder, and one which could all too easily be made to appear as an accident. Obviously Miss Vincenzo cannot move in with you so we must find a solution quickly. When might we wait on the lady in question?”</p><p>“She returns home from the factory at three today”, he said, “and I know that she would have to leave by a quarter-past five at the latest for her evening performance. You would catch her any time between three-thirty and five o' clock.”</p><p>“Good”, I smiled. “If you leave her address with us, we shall visit her between those hours and then formulate a plan of action.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>I could see that Watson was more than a little surprised at my so casually assuming that he would be going with me, although I waited until our visitor had gone before saying anything.</p><p>“I am sorry if I assumed a little too readily”, I said, abashed. “I do however find your presence grounding and would welcome it if you could come.”</p><p>I looked at him pleadingly, possibly even with what for some reason he had come to call my 'bacon look' (which was unfair; I did not use it <i>solely</i> when there were rashers anywhere in the vicinity). He sighed but then smiled, and nodded. Phew!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>Miss Vittoria Vincenzo lived at Number 30A, FitzAllan Gardens. It turned out to be a detached and quite modern house standing athwart the road which was terminated by the railway behind it, a single goods line running into Liverpool Street Station. I could not help but notice that the numbering was curious; houses one to thirty (no number thirteen) ran down one side, then Miss Vincenzo's house, and numbers sixty to eighty-nine back down the other side. Our client's house was also large and I did not wonder at her having to hold down two jobs to maintain it, although I presumed that she rented out unused rooms like everyone else.</p><p>The lady had obviously been apprised as to our coming and welcomed us with coffee (extra points for that!) and cake. She was I supposed pleasant enough, and her facial features were such that make-up would mar rather than make. I thought instinctively of my immediate elder sister Evelith, Guilford's twin, who always seemed to have used a trowel of a morning to make herself look like.... whatever she had been trying to look like. Whatever it had been, the effect was that of a female equivalent of Randall.</p><p>Trying desperately not to think of such a disturbing image, I went for the obvious question.</p><p>“Have you by any chance had an offer for this house, madam?”</p><p>She looked as surprised as Watson did, but rallied quickly.</p><p>“Yes”, she said, her voice somewhat melodic in tone. “How did you know that, sir?”</p><p>“I did not”, I said. “But one of the things that I noted when we arrived is that the area directly behind the railway line is being re-developed, and I surmised that this would make a suitable access road from the City while avoiding the busy terminus which is visible from your house. Also the house numbers suggested that there had once been another part to the street which had been removed or at least cut off to allow for the railway. Obviously the developers of the site would have to purchase your house should they wish to have their road, and it would be standard practice for them to add a premium to stop you from selling it to a private buyer.”</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>“It has made for some bad feeling along the road”, she admitted. “Many of my fellow Venetians live here and they had assumed that it was going to remain a quiet area. The thought of it becoming a thoroughfare worries them what with their children playing in the street, although this is generally a quiet area. As you say the remainder of the street was removed to make way for the railway; there was a goods yard across where the road was but they moved that elsewhere prior to widening the line. The developer who demolished the old houses built this house for himself; my late father told me that he had had an interest in railways, hence the position.”</p><p>“Why did he do that?” Watson wondered. “Did he not foresee that the road might be rebuilt one day?”</p><p>“You might have seen that the area where the remainder of the street was is somewhat lower down than this end”, she said. “There was something of a marsh down there and when they decided to create a park with new housing, they tore down all the old houses and started from scratch. However they then wanted more houses on the site, and the local council would only allow that if a second entry or entrance was added.”</p><p>“Who made you the offer?” I asked.</p><p>“Duncan &amp; Hands, the developers of the site beyond the railway”, she said. “I am afraid that I do not know if they were the ones making the offer or if they were acting for someone else. Mr. Smith very kindly had the house valued for me when I told him about it; their offer was as you said a little more than the house was worth but he advised me to refuse it as he said it was far short of what he felt I should get. I did not understand such things but since he knows business I decided to follow his advice.”</p><p>“I think that you were wise so to do”, I said. “But any development is a chancy thing; we must look into it further. On a possibly related matter, Mr. Smith tells us that he has some concerns about a co-worker of yours at the circus, a Mr. Roderick West?”</p><p>She shuddered.</p><p>“I think that he means well”, she said, “but he is such..... I would say that he is a Man rather than a gentleman, as the 'Times' said about someone recently. I do believe that he was genuinely surprised when I did not return his affections, or so one of my fellow Venetians who works in the circus as a cleaner told me. He is attractive but.... I am not quite sure about him. Mr. Smith is certain that he is behind the idea for me to be included in his act, which I would not like at all. But I cannot afford to lose my job there, so I may have to. I have two lodgers and I still struggle.”</p><p>I looked at her consideringly. This case was taking on a darker element that I did not like at all.</p><p>“Miss Vincenzo”, I said, “you mentioned that there are several other Venetians living in this particular road. Do you happen to know if your father sought to buy this house in particular, or if he was just looking for somewhere in this area?”</p><p>“That I do know”, she said. “He hoped to buy number Twenty-Three but that was sold to someone else, one of those people who, I believe the phrase is, sub-let to others. Not my fellow Venetians I do know; a family from somewhere in Essex lives there now and they are quite pleasant. However the owner of this house heard that my papa was looking for property and he was just about to put his own house on the market. We had some money put by and we were fortunate that the seller was prepared to accept a little way below its full value for an immediate sale. Papa had to take out a loan as well but we were just able to afford it. I did worry about that a little but Mr. Smith kindly explained that the process of selling a house can be horrendously expensive, and sometimes people will take a lower price to just have done with it.”</p><p>I did not like the timing of this house's sale either. I had thought to have kept my thoughts to myself so I was surprised when Watson looked across at me as if he sensed something was wrong.</p><p>“I see”, I said, striving to look innocent which for some reason made him narrow his eyes at me even more. “May I ask why your father purchased a house outright rather than just renting, madam?” </p><p>“He wished to settle in England permanently”, she explained. “His own papa was moderately rich and although that estate was divided between three sons my father had just enough to be able to afford this house. As I am sure you know the incorporation of Venice into the Kingdom of Italy was not welcomed across <i>La Serenissima</i>, and many of us have left for other countries.”</p><p>“Quite”, I smiled, deciding that the time had come to bite the bullet. “You are quite clearly a lady of sense as well as beauty Miss Vincenzo, so I am going to be honest with you. Your life is in danger unless you do exactly as I say.”</p><p>I could see that Watson felt I was being a little too direct there. The poor lady looked terrified.</p><p>“Why?” she gasped.</p><p>“You must trust me”, I said firmly. “In a moment I am going to run through a list of instructions, and if you follow them to the letter all will be well. <i>To the letter<i> Miss Vincenzo. Failure to do so may well result in your untimely demise and we do not wish that, do we?”</i></i></p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“No!” she managed.</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i>“Excellent!” I smiled. “Now this is what you must do……”</i>
  </i>
</p><p>
  <i>
    <i></i>
  </i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>We next paid a call to the offices of Duncan &amp; Hands, which was only a few streets away. It turned out to be a small branch of the company and the only manager who worked there was out with a potential client, which meant that I had to ask his questions of the secretary Miss Gilda Grassington. She was about sixty years of age, her hair tied up in a bun and looked the archetypal old maid. And I could see in the mirror Watson's incredulous expression as she openly simpered at me, which he followed by a most annoyed scowl. Ah well, some of us had it and some of us did not.</p><p>I asked the lady several questions, then thanked her for her time before returning outside with me.</p><p>“They are indeed the developers for Laxton Fields”, I said. “Miss Grassington also had several particularly interesting pieces of information to impart. For one thing Mr. George Hands, her manager, scheduled an unexpected meeting with someone when she was away from the office the day before. A Mr. Roderick West. She only found out when she came across his notes from it.”</p><p>“Did she know what the meeting was about?” he asked, still pouting.</p><p>“No”, I said, “but Mr. Hands retrieved the papers concerning the Laxton Fields development at the same time.”</p><p>“I am surprised that she was prepared to tell you as much”, he said, more than a trifle sourly.</p><p>I grinned.</p><p>“I am full of surprises!”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>By the following day I had done what needed to be done when Watson asked if I thought that the case was solvable.</p><p>“Oh, I solved it before we left FitzAllan Gardens”, I said airily, rather enjoying his shocked look. “However I rather liked dear Miss Grassington and she was most helpful to me, so I thought it only fair to warn her that she might very soon be out of employment.”</p><p>“Why?” he asked, confused.</p><p>“Because there is every likelihood that the criminal investigation into her employers will force them to close down”, I said, “so I advised her that immediately seeking alternative employment might be in her best interests.”</p><p>“But how are they involved?” he asked.</p><p>I was interrupted by the announcement of the first of two visitors I had been expecting, Miss Vincenzo. I kissed her hand and led her to a chair.</p><p>“I should say now that the danger I feared is all but passed”, I smiled. “I am however expecting another visitor, and it would be best if we waited for him before commencing.”</p><p>“Who is that?” she inquired.</p><p>“Mr. West”, I said. </p><p>She paled.</p><p>“Is that necessary?” she asked a little sharply.</p><p>“It is if you wish to know the whole truth”, I said crisply. “It is not a happy tale, I am afraid, but it looks to end about as well as could have been hoped.”</p><p>She looked at me dubiously but did not make to leave. A maid brought coffee, tea and cakes, and fifteen minutes later she led up Mr. West. Out of his outrageous pirate-style uniform that I had seen in the poster for the circus (I wondered if he truly hated having to wear such a get-up) he looked an utterly normal young Victorian gentleman, and barely seemed to have the years that Mr. Smith had ascribed to him. Then I reminded myself that this was someone who could knife a victim at a great distance (although ironically, those abilities would prove rather useful to me some years later). I also noticed that he looked rather embarrassed at finding his fellow performer there.</p><p>I poked the fire into life, as Watson was shivering, although I suppose that it was October. Also my friend seemed to be sat rather low in his chair for some reason. Odd.</p><p>“Miss Vincenzo”, I began, smiling at my friend who pouted when he caught my look, “I must start this tale with your father as he was the man who, albeit unwittingly, placed you in your recent peril.”</p><p>“My father?” she asked clearly puzzled. “How, pray?”</p><p>“My inquiries at the estate-agents confirmed what I had suspected”, I said. “Your father was not outbid on Number Twenty-Three as he told you. While at the estate-agents he chanced to see plans which showed that Number 30A would likely have to be knocked down as part of an access road to the new estate to be built beyond the railway line. I also found that since there had indeed been a road before, there would be much less problem reinstating it than there would have been in obtaining permission for a new thoroughfare. Your father foresaw that the owner of that house would likely make a huge profit once the development became public knowledge which is why he was prepared to offer more than the value of the house to its current owner for an immediate sale. More, not less as he told you.”</p><p>“His intention was of course that he would be the one making that profit. As it happened however his departure from this earthly realm left you in possession of the house. Now, apart from him only the estate-agents and the developers knew of the plans to build in the area at this time. However those plans then became known to a second gentleman.”</p><p>I turned to look hard at Mr. West.</p><p>“I don't know what you're talking about”, the young man said defensively.</p><p>“The estate-agents were recently visited by a gentleman called 'Mr. West'”, I said, “and for some reason the appointment was <i>not</i> logged in the schedule as is common practice. It is regrettably still the law of this country that a married woman's property becomes that of their new husband should she predecease him, so the gentleman who married Miss Vincenzo might eventually come into possession of a most handsome property – <i>especially if his new wife happened to then die!”</i></p><p>
  <i>(I should note here that this situation was remedied four years later by the Married Women's Property Act of 1882. Under an earlier Act of 1870 our client would as said have retained control of her inheritance, but had she then died it would have passed to her widower – and likely killer!).</i>
</p><p>The knife-man had gone rather pale.</p><p>“I've never been to any estate-agents!” he exclaimed. </p><p>I stared at him for a moment before turning back to Miss Vincenzo.</p><p>“I am very much afraid, madam, that had you married in the near future then said marriage would have been curtailed by your untimely death in an accident that would not have been the least bit accidental.”</p><p>She definitely edged away from Mr. West.</p><p>“You wished me to be in your act?” she exclaimed. “Heavens!”</p><p>“I still don't know what you're talking about”, Mr. West blustered but I could see the fear in his eyes. </p><p>I eyed him thoughtfully.</p><p>“The secretary there, a Miss Grassington, is a most highly talented lady”, I said. “I for one am glad that she exhibits no criminal tendencies, as I fear that she might prove a most formidable opponent. For example, she observed two things about the visitor that she was very obviously sent out to avoid seeing. The first was a small quantity of sawdust on her manager's floor which she assumed had come off the visitor's footwear, since she knew that it had not been there before the meeting.”</p><p>Mr. West instinctively pulled his boots back a little. Watson was looking over at them and clearly thinking exactly the same as Miss Vincenzo. 'Circus-ring'.</p><p>“Sawdust can come from anywhere”, Mr. West blustered, but he looked increasingly worried.</p><p>“Actually that is not true”, I said. “It is most fortunate for you, young sir, that Miss Grassington is as tidy-minded as she is talented. She cleaned the mess away before the cleaner arrived, depositing the sawdust in her own waste-paper basket which she empties herself only when it is full, as she likes to double-check the contents to make sure that nothing important has been thrown away in error. I was therefore able to obtain a sample of the sawdust which I have since tested. And what do you think I found when I did that?”</p><p>It was perhaps a little unfair of me to torment him like this, especially as I knew from my inquiries that he had considerably improved his general behaviour after his rejection by our client. He shook under my gaze.</p><p>“I found”, I said, “that the sawdust in the room was <i>not</i> the same as the sawdust used in your own circus-ring!”</p><p>“What?” Watson exclaimed. </p><p>Both our guests were similarly astonished.</p><p>“It was planted by either the estate-agent or his visitor, in order to give the impression that Mr. West had been there”, I said. “It is in fact from a piece of garden fencing; I know this for a fact as it the sample contained faint traces of a common varnish supplied to protect such.”</p><p>“But who was it then?” Watson asked. “We have only just started investigating the case.”</p><p>I saw the moment when, too late, he realized that he had said 'we' instead of 'you'. I could have teased him about that but I restricted myself to a slight pause and an even slighter smile which was definitely not a smirk. He still blushed nonetheless.</p><p>“This is how the crime was committed”, I said. “Our criminal – <i>not</i> Mr. West here – learns of the potential value of Miss Vincenzo's house and sets out to woo her.”</p><p>“But the only person that I am seeing now is Mr. Smith”, she objected.</p><p>I waited. She was going to put two and two together.... and from the agonized look on her face she just had.</p><p>“No!”</p><p>“All marches well until Mr. Smith has a piece of bad luck”, I said. “I do not doubt that poor Mr. West here was to be set up as the man behind the future Mrs. Smith's untimely demise but in establishing this scenario, the villain mentions his concerns to his business partner Sir Edward Holmes, who replies that his youngest son is a consulting-detective. Mr. Smith sees an excellent chance to pull the wool over everyone's eyes and secure his rival's doom. He arranges a private meeting with the estate-agents who were doubtless in on the whole ramp 'for a cut', and some sawdust is left in their offices at a meeting with 'Mr. West' who, had we pressed matters, would surely have been described as someone present in this room. Thus he was able to incriminate his rival.”</p><p>“But Mr. Smith's cologne”, Watson objected. “It was.... well, potent. Would Miss Grassington not have noticed that?”</p><p>“Ah”, I said, “there we come to the matter of Mr. Smith's accomplice. Wanting to eliminate any risk of himself coming under suspicion he looked around the circus for someone who shared his dislike of Mr. West here; indeed I am sure that if we were to check, we would find that he had a strong alibi for the time of that meeting. The man who assisted him was Giordo, the clown.”</p><p>“How can you know that?” Mr. West asked. “I know he doesn't like me much but how did you know it?”</p><p>“Because the other thing observed by the eagle-eyed Miss Grassington puzzled her considerably”, I said. “She told me that while she had not detected any unusual <i>scent</i> in the office upon her return, she had noticed what she thought to be a small rouge marking on the visitor's chair. What struck her as odd was both the location on the arm-rest and also the shade, which she described as 'dark burgundy'. Not a common colour among ladies – and of the four clowns at the circus, only Giordo uses that colour.</p><p>The lady finally found her voice.</p><p>“And you think..... you think that Mr. Smith may have tried to kill me?” she asked in a small voice.</p><p>“My dear lady”, I said gravely, “I am certain of it.”</p><p>“He should hang for this!” Mr. West growled.</p><p>“That is the problem”, I said. “Of evidence, we have very little. If we put this in front of a court it would most likely be rejected. However I have told my father that Mr. Smith is not to be trusted and I dare say that my soon to be ex-client will find his business affairs a trifle more difficult in the coming weeks.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>I was of course right. Father pulled his money out of Mr. Smith's business that same day and the villain was forced to sell out less than a year later. I was not surprised to read early the following year that the body of a failed businessman had been hauled out of the Thames having been stabbed in the back. It was a fitting end considering his character.</p><p>Miss Vincenzo and Mr. West decided to settle elsewhere in London and sold her house at a handsome profit. They married beforehand but Mr. West insisted on his new wife keeping all the proceeds from the sale for herself in  a separate bank account. They proceeded to have six children five of whom were boys, and the youngest of these we would meet many years later in one of our last adventures together. And as I said, before that we would before that meet Mr. West when he would demonstrate his knife-throwing skills to great effect.</p><p>Finally, because I was a generous fellow who had had the misfortune of growing up with the prank-prone Guilford as a brother, I purchased a huge pop-up spider from the circus and arranged for it to be shipped up to Edinburgh in a box marked 'Secure: Evidence' as a surprise for Watson's brother. A few days later he received a telegram with the message 'I hate you!' It was good to see my friend laugh like that.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. The Gregson Inheritance</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>November 1876. John meets a second policeman friend of Sherlock's, and realizes that even those on the same side can be at war. Oh, and there is controversy over an American presidential race.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It was, I suppose, appropriate that Gregson came round on Guy Fawkes's Night. Well, on Guy Fawkes's Day, I suppose.</p><p>Much as it pains me to admit it, Watson is right on two things. I am occasionally less than perfectly organized – although certainly not to the point where Mrs. MacAndrew's maids need to cross themselves or even utter up a prayer before starting work! – and he really should get something for that cough of his as it is fast becoming <i>annoying!</i> I had better begin at the beginning.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>In the matter of LeStrade's inheritance which I covered back in 'Seventy-Two, I mentioned his ongoing feud with Gregson. I had found this frankly puzzling; they were both working for the same employer and although of different characters in some ways, they both had that common core of decency that made a good policeman. Unfortunately they seemed to rub each other up the wrong way at every opportunity and then work flat out to find yet more opportunities; they really were terrible!</p><p>I also mentioned before that as part of every good doctor's work (the astute reader will note that the insertion of that adjective implied quite correctly that I did not mean <i>every</i> doctor), the likes of Watson were required to carry out a certain amount of philanthropic work in order to maintain their social and professional standing. Both our friends were clearly in need of such aid; Gregson's wife Mary was often ill and he had two young sons to raise, while LeStrade had four sons and a daughter. I therefore had to give my friend some serious credit when he very carefully approached both men in turn and asked if he might take them on as part of his social duties because they were friends of mine. The way in which he overcame their natural reluctance to accept help by making it seem that they were doing <i>him</i> a favour was most admirable.</p><p>The way in which he tip-toed far too cautiously when crossing my possibly less than tidy half of our main room to tell me what he had done was, I might add, <i>not</i> so admirable!</p><p>In fairness I did sort of owe my friend a favour as he had helped get me out of going round to Guilford Street and hearing Mother's latest horror, whatever it was (so dreadful were here writings that even mere details had the potential to leave one traumatized. She had Commanded everyone round for Guy Fawkes's Night but luckily I had received an invitation to a concert that same night, where Mr. Johannes Brahms's First Symphony was being premiered in England the day after its first outing on the Continent. Watson loved the fellow's work and was very keen to go, which enabled me to send to Mother that I was obliged to take the fellow along with me.</p><p>Quite why she replied with a telegram that just said 'I understand, dear', I had no idea. What exactly did she understand? Mr. Brahms's music?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>It was a rare day of good weather the day after the concert, and it was a good thing that my friend had enjoyed it (as had I, by the way), because he had gone off on his rounds looking depressed as he had one client that he frankly loathed. So I had sent out to the local sweet-shop for a bar of that new milk chocolate¹ that he liked; I know that I could have picked it in up on my walk but sending one of the local urchins there enabled me to give them some extra pennies. </p><p>I was about start on said walk when Gregson arrived, which caught me totally off guard as it was not Mrs. MacAndrew's baking-day. Worse, Watson's cynicism had meant that yes, I <i>had</i> checked the calendar just to be sure.</p><p>My friend was becoming a bad influence on me!</p><p>“I do not know if you can help me, sir”, Gregson said, sounding oddly down for him. “It is about my family.”</p><p>He had my sympathy there to start with. My own family was, as my dear Mother herself often said, the sort who put the 'dys' into dysfunctional. Worse, despite my having avoiding her Bonfire Reading, Mark, the bastard, had told me that she was currently working on some spy story with the terrifying title 'Mr. Kiss Kiss Bang Bang'! How she was able to make a man shudder with as little as a title was alarming indeed; I had arranged that Tiny should receive some extra 'supplies' for the weekend to stop my brother from being so damn informative!</p><p>I wondered if Gregson's visit might be because his wife Mary had had a miscarriage recently, sadly her second after which Watson had gently advised the fellow that to try again might well risk her life. I knew that the sergeant had been bitterly disappointed in that, not least because he had wanted a large family. I had been a little surprised that his new superior had given him time off to be with his wife as this was not common practice at the time; only later would I find myself drawn into the Cumberlander's own unhappy family life.</p><p>“My elder brother Tommy”, Gregson sighed. “The estate thing again.”</p><p>Ah, that. His father had died two years back and the title had passed to his eldest son of the same name, an apple that had regrettably not fallen far from a rotten tree. Gregson had mentioned at the time that he privately hoped all five of his father's wives would eventually track him down in the next world as he had not treated any of them, including Gregson's mother, at all well. Still, two years on seemed a lot even given the snail's pace of the average lawyer these days.</p><p>“Was the will not clear about who got what?” I asked.</p><p>“The will is not the problem, sir”, Gregson sighed. “You know how poor Tommy is almost blind? He is training to be a priest, Heaven alone knows why as the Good Lord has hardly dealt well with him so far in life. Although he recently took up with a good girl from the docks, Peg White. I almost wish that Father could have still been alive; the shock of one of his boys linking up with a Stepney girl would have killed him again!”</p><p>I smiled at that. The late Baron Gregson had been insufferably proud, and sadly his son and successor was much the same.</p><p>“Peg came to see me last week”, my visitor said. “Because she is smart Tommy asked her to take over his money and all, as they are moving in together once they are married. She found that he had signed some paper giving up his share of the estate, so he had next to nothing!”</p><p>I thought for a moment.</p><p>“Did all his money therefore go to his brother the new baron?” I asked.</p><p>“She did not know that”, he admitted. “But there was one thing that puzzled her. Tommy had to go to the lawyer's offices to sign some papers, and while he was waiting he heard the fellow talking about sunsets, of all things! He asked him why but the fellow said that he must have misheard.”</p><p>That meant nothing to me, but fortunately I knew of someone who might be able to explain it in English rather than legal-ese.</p><p>“I will look into it, Gregson”, I promised, “and I will call you when I have something.”</p><p>He looked intensely relieved. Especially as I was sure that he would be calling in to check up on my progress come the next one of Mrs. MacAndrew's baking-days. Just as I was sure that the sun would be rising in the east tomorrow!</p><p>As I said, Watson was becoming a bad influence on me.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>Despite his terrible behaviour my friend was more than willing to help, and he sent his brother up in Edinburgh a telegram asking him about the phrase. Two days later he had his response in one of those letters that had clearly been written by a lawyer, and made me glad that recipients no longer had to pay to receive their mail. I wondered idly if someone receiving a script from Mother might be able to claim a rebate to help cover the shock and the ensuing hospital treatment.....</p><p>“It is something quite new that they took up from the Ancient Greeks”, said some villain who was clearly to blame for me thinking such thoughts, “and came about because of a famous case that arose out of the Irish Mail railway crash at Tamworth some six years back. It could not be worked out whether one or the other of a family had died in the wreckage first, and that was important as it affected who got what in a will. Most of the estate was lost in legal fees according to Stevie, so lawyers developed this new 'sunset clause'.”</p><p>“I would have thought that lawyers would have been more than glad at such an outcome”, I observed.</p><p>“He says that it caused a whole lot of bad publicity for the company involved as one of the victims was a young child”, he said. “It is called sunset because it means that when someone dies a timer begins, so that if a beneficiary in their will also dies within a certain time then they and any of their offspring cannot inherit. The Greeks had the original idea; at one time all their laws automatically expired after ten years and had to be renewed.”</p><p>I thought that quite a good idea given governmental tendencies to stick their nose into everything and anything these days. I reached across for an envelope that I had got ready.</p><p>“I was able to obtain the late Baron Gregson's will”, I said, “so knowing that fact we can see <i>cui bono</i> – who benefited from the disinheritance of Mr. Thomas Gregson.”</p><p>I read carefully through the document, pausing only when Watson brought me a coffee which was my second of the afternoon. Not my fourth, whatever anyone with hazel eyes and a damnably annoying smirk said. Finally I placed it aside and scowled.</p><p>“Damnation!”</p><p>“What is wrong?” he asked.</p><p>“I had thought that Mr. Thomas Gregson might have been prevailed upon to have refused his inheritance within a set time of his father's death”, I said. “But like most of the family he received only a nominal sum, presumably to frustrate any legal claims.”</p><p>“His father married five times”, Watson said, “and we know that a certain cake-loving sergeant was the only offspring of the fourth marriage.”</p><p>I glared at him for his cynicism, however justified it may or may not have been in the circumstances.</p><p>“Only the sons of the first union inherited anything from their father”, I said, shaking my head at his impertinence. “Presumably that was because that wife died in childbirth rather than walking out on him as all the others did. That means there were three sons and a daughter who got something with the bulk of the moneys going to the eldest son and heir, the new Baron William. All offspring of the other four marriages were left with the nominal farthing; we know from Gregson that there was a particular animosity because his mother was so public over her divorce of him.”</p><p>“I suppose that setting fire to his study during a visit from minor royalty might have been considered a rather public act”, he smiled. “Not to forget taking him to court afterwards and winning that huge settlement for his having beaten her and then lied about it in court. The society-magazines made great play with that, as did the 'Times'!”</p><p>I only narrowly suppressed a smile at his admission that he read such articles, which he always proclaimed were far from his usual literary choices. And the ones that he kept in the second drawer down of his bedside cabinet (I had come across them when trying to find a barley-sugar that I had misplaced).</p><p>“That means that the new baron apart, each of the other children would get about thirty-five pounds²”, I said. “It is still hardly motive.”</p><p>“Men have killed for less”, he said sagely, “especially in London.”</p><p>He was right, I supposed. I frowned. I had a lot of suspects but very little in the way of motive.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>As if we were not fearful of situation in southern Europe just then, it looked that month as if there might well be trouble over in the United States over their presidential election that year. The Democrat Mr. Samuel Tilden had won slightly more than half the popular vote but, because of their curious (although in light of their curious constitution, I suppose necessary) electoral college system it had been the Republican Mr. Rutherford Hayes who had emerged the winner. There was very clearly widespread fraud on both sides – I seriously doubted that the turnout in Democrat South Carolina had really been one hundred and one per cent, to start with – and the whole affair would drag on for four months until a compromise was reached; Mr. Hayes would become president but the Republicans would pledge to withdraw troops from the south and end Reconstruction, the controversial and heavily abused process of rebuilding the war-damaged South after the Civil War.</p><p>It frankly amazed me that a democracy could make such a mess of a simple thing like a general election. Still, at least they would learn from their mistakes and not do such a stupid thing ever again.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>They do say that inspiration can come from the most unlikely places, and of all my brothers I would have rated Hilton as being the least useful to.... well, anyone of the eight hundred million souls on the planet! Yet it was a conversation involving him, or at least one which moved to include him, which showed me a new angle on this case.</p><p>Watson had inquired about my unusual Christian name. As a doctor he really should have known that some questions were better not asked let alone answered, especially that one.</p><p>“My mother chose it”, I said. “Her grandfather was named Lockford which might explain the latter part of it, and I suspect although do not know for sure that the former part is in honour of Sheridan, Lord Hawke, a family friend who helped save Father from ruin just before I was born. Overall it means 'sheared locks'; that is I suppose appropriate.”</p><p>He looked at the arguably less than pristine black thatch atop my pate and I could just <i>feel</i> him biting back a sharp remark. I shot him a warning look.</p><p>“What about the rest of your siblings?” he asked looking far too innocent in my humble opinion. “Your have not told me all of them yet given you said once that you had twelve in total, but the ones you have are quite unusual.”</p><p>I winced. </p><p>“What is it?” he asked , puzzled.</p><p>“All my other siblings are named after properties owned by my family”, he explained. “Father made his money buying and selling properties everywhere across the Three Kingdoms, and he and Mother often went there to..... you know....”</p><p>He went bright red. <i>He knew!</i></p><p>“Hope is a place in Derbyshire, Mycroft is the name of a hunting-lodge in western Ross-shire, and Moira is a village in Leicestershire. Hilton is named for a village in Westmorland which is a pity, as I quite liked my holidays in that area when I was young. Carlyon is in Cornwall, Mark is in Somersetshire, and Logan is named for Port Logan in Wigtownshire. Randall is named for a house in Derbyshire, my sister Kerry is named for a small town in Montgomeryshire in the Welsh March, Evelith for a village in Staffordshire and Guilford obviously for the London street where our house is.”</p><p>“Before and after your Mother got upset with him that time”, he smiled.</p><p>“I would say that Randall and Guilford learned their lesson after that”, I sighed, “especially as they each lost a year's allowance to help fund the repairs. But I know them, so I am sure that they did not. My immediate elder sibling is Annabella which is a village near Mallow in Ireland where Mother came from and where she now has a house; it is as you know also where I was born. If you ever tire of life and decide to end it all, try doing what Hilton did once and use Anna's full name in her presence!”</p><p>He smiled at that.</p><p>“And you said some of them work for the government?” he asked.</p><p>“Mycroft, Mark and Randall all do, and Guilford does from time to time”, I said, hoping that he would not ask why not Logan as the answer would have involved explaining that my other brother was a somewhat unconventional businessman. 'Was' might be the word if the scowling Ajax had killed him through sex, which from the regular state of my brother he was clearly working rapidly towards!</p><p>I had terrible relatives!</p><p>“What does Hilton do?” he wondered, mercifully alighting on a different sibling.</p><p>“As little as possible!” I scoffed. “He works for a bank but they have him just for his name and his connection to Father; I am sure that they pay him partly on the understanding that he comes in as little as possible. I know that I would!”</p><p>“Not a benefit to society, then?” he asked, far too innocently.</p><p>I snorted at that.</p><p>“The day that Hilton does anything for anyone without expecting four times as much in return will be the day that the sun rises in the west!” I said firmly. “In fact he is the odd man out in another way; Mother was due to be visiting a property in Appleby but it was undergoing repair at the time that he was born so Mother had him in a friend's house in a nearby village. The Butler family owned the place, I believe.”</p><p>“An Irish family?” he asked.</p><p>“Yes”, I said, wondering why he had asked that. “They are distant cousins of the Earls of Desmond to whom Mother is also related, much as that would likely terrify both of them. As you know I was born over there, so perhaps I was lucky to avoid being called Mallow or some such. Why do you ask?”</p><p>“I was wondering if they were related to Lady Eleanor Butler”, he said. “I was reading about her the other day.”</p><p>“In the society-pages?” I teased. </p><p>He scowled at me.</p><p>“Hardly, as she died over four hundred years ago”, he said frostily. “She was the lady who brought down the Yorkist dynasty.”</p><p>I had little if any interest in dead kings and all that, but I knew that Watson did and that he enjoyed being able to talk about them. He certainly could not have done so to any of his snooty patients, who would have considered a doctor knowledgeable about such things to be strange indeed, and quite likely someone that they did not wish to be treated by, the fools. Besides, I liked to see him smile.</p><p>“Tell me about her”, I said.</p><p>He looked surprised at my interest but carried on.</p><p>“King Edward The Fourth was helped onto the throne by the great Kingmaker, Richard Neville, Earl of Warwick”, he said. “He had been arranging a foreign marriage for the king when Edward suddenly turned round one day and dropped into the conversation that he had secretly married Elizabeth Woodville, a widow of a Lancastrian so an enemy. She then set about getting top positions and good marriages for all her very large family, and that led to the Readeption where Warwick deposed him and put Henry The Sixth back onto the throne, only for Edward to come back and defeat him.”</p><p>“What had that to do with this Butler lady?” I asked.</p><p>“Edward was something of a ladies' man”, he said, looking pointedly at me for some inexplicable reason, “and before marrying Elizabeth Woodville he had pre-contracted to marry another woman, Lady Eleanor Butler. By the laws of those days that meant he could not legally marry another woman unless he had 'bought out' his first one which he had not; Lady Butler had still been alive at his 'marriage'. That came back to bite the dynasty when he died; his brother became Richard The Third because he claimed that all the offspring of his brother's union were illegitimate. Legally they were, but the barons did not like it and he was defeated by Henry Tudor at Bosworth just two years later.”</p><p>“Was she rich, this Lady Butler?” I wondered.</p><p>He shook his head.</p><p>“Her family was important, but she became a nun”, he said.</p><p>Suddenly and perhaps a tad belatedly, I saw it.</p><p>
  <i>“Women!”</i>
</p><p>He looked at me in surprise. I suppose he had some cause; that was not the sort of thing that either of us would normally have just shouted out mid-conversation.</p><p>“Mr. Thomas Gregson did not sign away his right to inherit anything from his father”, I said excitedly. “He signed away an inheritance from his <i>mother!</i>”</p><p>“And he had to do it within a set time because there was something in the rules of the inheritance that demanded that”, he said. “Yes, I remember now. His mother died quite recently. So he was tricked. Can it be proved?”</p><p>“I need the documents that the old baron's lawyer must have used”, I said. </p><p>“How can you get those?” he asked. “Surely they will be locked safely away in his office?”</p><p>I smiled knowingly.</p><p>“I have friends”, I said. </p><p>He looked at me in a confusion that was borderline adorable for a grown man.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>I was referring to my friend Miss Elvira Gorringe, brilliant scientist and even more brilliant thief. Unfortunately she was by nature wary of trusting any outsider so I had to contact her without having Watson there, as she would not have accepted his presence (although to be fair, I should add that like nearly everyone in such circumstances she did later come to accept him). I fully expected my friend to be upset when I told him that I was meeting someone who I could not (yet) introduce to him, but he took it surprisingly well. Of course I knew that he was not happy but I felt strangely warmed that he had at least tried to spare my feelings. What with that, the bacon and the coffee, he was not a bad fellow all things told.</p><p>A few days later we had a visitor to Montague Street. I was not at all surprised to see that William, fourth Baron Gregson had brought his lawyer, a walking semi-human oil-slick called Mr. Michael Black who had so much gel on his hair (complete with a pony-tail!) that I thought he might go up in flames if he got too near the fire. Maybe just a tiny push....... </p><p>“Thank you for coming, gentlemen”, I said, resisting the urge to accidentally stumble into one of them and noting their wariness at Watson taking notes at the table. “My friend documents all my cases for the record.”</p><p>“You asked to see me”, the baron said curtly. “Well?”</p><p>He was I knew eleven years older than his brother my friend, but fast living was already taking its toll on what had likely been few looks to begin with. I knew that he was married with two sons and two daughters so his lineage was secured, but also that his marriage was if not on the rocks then heading their at full steam after his wife had recently discovered that he had fathered an illegitimate child by a lady of the night. And had another on the way courtesy of their recently and hastily-departed house-maid. Unfortunately for him, his wife was well-connected enough to support herself, her father being unlike this excrescence in the House of Lords. Watson had told me all this, which once again was impressive given how rarely he claimed to ever glance at the society-pages in the 'Times'. Or those society-magazines that he always spoke out against.</p><p>“It is about the disinheriting of your brother Thomas”, I said.</p><p>“I do not know what you are talking about”, the baron said blithely, looking supremely bored. Although I noticed that his lawyer was on edge, as well he should have been.</p><p>“Mr. Thomas Gregson was prevailed upon to sign a document waiving his right to a most generous inheritance”, I said. “A sum of just under seventy pounds, approximately. He was told he had to sign a document as part of the proceedings to sort the estate out, and he was also shown a will stating that as he was – I am loath to use the vile phrase, but those were the words used  – 'not whole', he was therefore not a beneficiary.”</p><p>“My father left all the offspring of his later and less worthy marriages a farthing each”, the baron sniffed. “Even that useless policeman who was frankly lucky to get that much!”</p><p>“I was not referring to your father”, I said, turning to the rascally lawyer who was now visibly alarmed. “I was referring to Mr. Thomas Gregson's mother, the former Miss Thomasina Ffarquhar. A rich Scottish lady who had a large sum that was hers as of right, and which she willed to her son. You, Mr. Black, visited Mr. Thomas Gregson and tricked him into signing a document transferring his claim to his elder step-brother, the baron here on whose orders you acted.”</p><p>“I take it that you have proof of this?” Mr. Black inquired snootily.</p><p>He was clearly regaining his confidence, so I reached down to the floor and picked up the papers that had been extracted from his offices only two days back. He went deathly pale when he recognized them.</p><p>“What are those?” he gasped in an impressively high-pitched tone.</p><p>“The documents which you <i>claimed</i> to have left with Mr. Thomas Gregson when he signed those papers”, I smiled. “In fact you left him some typed notes and took this back to your office, where you were doubtless rewarded by your partner in crime.”</p><p>The lawyer looked hopefully at the door.</p><p>“What do you want, Mr. Holmes?” the baron snarled.</p><p>“There are some documents on the table awaiting your urgent attention”, I said. “You will sign over all your investments and all the cash in both your current and deposit accounts, which in total is a little over seventy-five pounds. That sum reflects both your theft and a small punitive fine.”</p><p>“That is preposterous!” the baron almost shouted. “I can have you arrested for blackmail.”</p><p>“Feel free to call a policeman”, I smiled easily. “Or alternatively to try to prevent your brother from accessing this money. The alternative is for you to explain to society how you swindled your own brother out of his rightful inheritance. Social ruin awaits you if you do, as I am sure you are aware. As for you Mr. Black, I shall be informing your superiors about your actions. I doubt that they will require your services for much longer after today.”</p><p>The baron growled at me but rose to his feet and lumbered over to the table where he signed the documents. His lawyer looked as if he might protest but wisely decided not to.</p><p>“The two blue envelopes are your copies”, I said helpfully. “One you may wish to give to your lawyer – although perhaps you may decide to have a new one, given the circumstances.”</p><p>The baron scowled at me, then at Watson, and strode from the room with his lawyer scurrying along behind him. I could hear them arguing as they moved away down the stairs, and smiled in relief.</p><p>“It really is disgusting that he should have taken advantage just because his brother has bad sight”, Watson sighed. “I think that I shall ask around to see if I can find someone who could take a look at him, and see if what he has is treatable.”</p><p>I smiled at him. He was a good friend and a good man. I was lucky to have him around, really.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>Watson did indeed find a doctor friend who, showing great philanthropy, invited Mr. Thomas Gregson in to see what could be done for him. His sight could not be completely restored but he went from about ten per cent vision to a little over fifty, and he was also prescribed some eye-drops which stopped any further worsening of his sight. He sent me a kind thank-you letter stating that he was so much happier now, which was good. He and his Peg were married before moving to Cambridgeshire where he did indeed become a local vicar, and he insisted on sharing the money that he had gained with the brother who had brought me in on the case. </p><p>Baron William died just three years later and the title passed to his son Martin who at seventeen was guided through to his majority by his uncle Edmund, after which he made a much better addition to the English nobility than either his father or grandfather had done. Not that that had been a particularly high bar.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>
  <i>Notes:</i>
  <br/>
  <i>1) Fry's Milk Chocolate had been first produced the year before this story is set. The first mass-produced chocolate bar, Cadbury's Dairy Milk, would not appear until 1905; Cadbury's took over Fry's soon after.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>2) At least £3,500 ($4,200) at 2021 prices. Mr. Thomas Gregson's inheritance from his mother was about three times as much.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Ekaterina Or Elena?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>December 1876. Sherlock quotes something from the thirteenth century and manages to both succeed and fail in fulfilling his client's request for help.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mentioned also as the case of the old Russian woman.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One of the questions that Watson's readers asked over the years (or at least one of the saner questions!) was as to why he did not cover any cases where I failed to find the guilty party. Naturally these were few and far between, but there was what one might define as a grey area, where my client was perhaps less than happy with my solution,. But then justice first has always been my tenet, even if the result was occasionally a less than happy client.</p><p>Which was important in this case as said client could have had me killed as easily as he could have sent out for an extra newspaper!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>There was a small but important domestic incident at the start of that final month of the year which brought home to me just how lucky I was to have Watson as a friend. The day had started badly when we had received a message that due to a short delivery Mrs. MacAndrew was nearly out of bacon so there would be less that morning, as if more sausages and tomatoes somehow made up for that dreadful failing. And just as I had thought to have averted this tragedy when Watson very generously forked over both his rashers, I saw that something else was amiss. </p><p>“Ketchup?” I asked, looking around the table in the hope that the blessed stuff might be hiding somewhere.</p><p>“That was missing from the delivery as well”, he said, crossing to the drinks-cabinet.</p><p>I stared at him in surprise. He never drank at this time of a morning.</p><p>“You need a whisky now?” I asked.</p><p>He shook his head and reached into the back of the cabinet, drawing out.... ye Gods, a bottle of that blesséd new Heinz Tomato Ketchup, which was so much better than the one we had had before. </p><p>“I know how much you love it on your breakfasts”, he smiled, “and the shop told me that it is so popular that they keep running out. So I laid in a bottle just in case. I will pick up another one when I go out later.”</p><p>I sniffed at his consideration, and nothing like as manfully as he himself would have done. He was a <i>good</i> friend!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>One of my good friend's many peculiarities was that he greatly enjoyed the pagan celebration at the end of the calendar year. I suppose that many people did and still do, but he definitely did more than most. He was of course restricted, as was I, by the fact that we had rooms rather than our own house, but he still imported mistletoe and holly into our main room which I very generously tolerated, even if one rather forward female client looked at me and the mistletoe before making a suggestion that.... <i>never in a million years!</i></p><p>Winter had come early that year and as the previous weeks having been uncommonly busy at my friend's surgery, he was rewarding himself with a rare day off from both his studies and his surgery work. He was sat by the fire reading his favourite book 'A Christmas Carol' (definitely one of Mr. Charles Dickens's better works, in my opinion) when I spoke up.</p><p>“How do you feel about art, doctor?”</p><p>He looked up, clearly wondering what had brought this on. He knew by this time that I had no time for anything that did not contribute directly to my work as a consulting detective, so I would surely have had no reason for any interest in art. Nor would I have done as a rule, but I had my reasons this time.</p><p>“I do not really feel much about it”, he admitted. “My main contact is the paintings that I see in rich patients' houses, which I tend to avoid commenting on in case they turn out to be some ancestor or other. Oftentimes someone who they either adore or hate!”</p><p>“Have you read about the forthcoming exhibition at the National Gallery?” I pressed.</p><p>He nodded. He had mentioned a few days back that relations between Great Britain and Russia were for once tolerable, although if the Bear kept sniffing around the ailing Ottoman Empire currently at war with its Balkan Christian subjects in Serbia and Montenegro, then that rapport would be a brief one. As a result several notable Russian <i>émigrés</i> had got together to put on an exhibition of their various collected artworks at the Gallery. A matter arising from which was the reason for my brief foray into matters artistic.</p><p>“A certain Mr. Richard Kuznetsov has asked me to call round to his house, to investigate the theft of a painting from his collection”, I explained. “A painting that he had intended to loan to the Gallery for the exhibition. It is called 'The Two Ladies'.”</p><p>He likely had little more art knowledge than I did, but that particular painting was quite famous at the time. Subtitled 'Ekaterina Or Elena?', it was one of those strange and arguably clever drawings where depending on how one looked at it, you saw either a disfigured old crone (Ekaterina) or a beautiful young woman (Elena). A child's plaything perhaps but the artist of this version had done much more with it using the background either side of the figure to show pictures from old and modern Russia. The original painting was a small thing indeed, barely any larger than the book that I was holding, but the copies were usually larger. It certainly made a change from seemingly constipated ancestors or bland pastoral scenes.</p><p>“Another case then?” he said, far too casually.</p><p>I could hear the hope in his voice. I had had a few matters since the matter of Mr. Thomas Gregson (including that over-eager female!) but nothing of note, and he had been particularly busy as he had wanted to get ahead with his essays before the Lord's Day. Worse, when I hesitated his face visibly fell. Annoyingly I felt like a heel even though I had said or done nothing!</p><p>“I would like to have your company on this or any case”, I said carefully. “However this particular one has certain.... difficulties which may preclude your involvement.”</p><p>“Too politically sensitive you mean?” he hazarded. </p><p>I sighed. He was not making this easy.</p><p>“What I mean”, I said, “is that you will probably not approve of my client.”</p><p>That clearly surprised him.</p><p>“Because he is Russian?” he asked.</p><p>“No”, I said. “Because he is one of the top crime lords in the city of London.”</p><p>He stared at me, aghast.</p><p>“And you are still taking the case?” he exclaimed. </p><p>I looked at him meaningfully.</p><p><i>“'To no-one will we deny or delay right, or justice'”</i>, I said softly. </p><p>He clearly recognized the famous quote from Magna Carta, but his conflicted expression showed that he still thought this was wrong in some way. I suppose that I should have empathized; there was an element of the lawyer in my work that sometimes I felt compelled to take cases in order to effect justice no matter what I thought of my client. Although if it came to a conflict between justice and the law, I would always choose the former.</p><p><i>“That</i> was what I meant”, I explained. “As you yourself have said to me, once those in power start picking and choosing who is 'deserving' of justice we are at the start of a very slippery slope. You are a righteous and good-hearted fellow, doctor, while this case involves some of the lowest of society. I would still prefer to have your company but I shall quite understand if you would prefer not to involve yourself.”</p><p>He blushed at the praise. I still thought that he might decline any involvement given his righteous nature but once again he surprised me.</p><p>“I am in!” he said firmly. </p><p>“Very well”, I said, smiling at his resolve. “The facts of the case seem to be straightforward. The famous painting is owned by my client Mr. Richard Kuznetsov and he was planning to loan it to the exhibition for its second week, presumably to provide a boost in attendance after the initial run of visitors. Three days ago Mr. Kuznetsov was visited at his London mansion by his youngest son Gregor, who lives but a few streets away. The father was out at the time and returned to find his famous painting gone. He immediately sent two of his men round to his son's flat where they duly found said painting.”</p><p>He looked at me expectantly, clearly expecting there to have been more.</p><p>“You said <i>seem</i> to be straightforward”, he said. “You do not believe that the son took the painting?”</p><p>I sighed.</p><p>“Mr. Kuznetsov still plans to lend the painting to the exhibition for next Monday”, I said. “I am following a line of reasoning which, if it holds true, would make that something of a deadline.”</p><p>“Did the son admit to it when he was caught?” he asked.</p><p>“He denied it point-blank”, I said. “He could not however explain as to how the painting had come to be in his house.”</p><p>“Who saw that the painting was missing?” he asked.</p><p>“One of the maids”, I said. “She went into the gallery to clean there and saw the gap on the wall.”</p><p>“You are taking the case on principle?” he asked. </p><p>I smiled at that.</p><p>“Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov is the younger of the two sons”, I said, “so as the youngest of thirteen I may be a little biased. But Mr. Kuznetsov is himself dubious as to his son's guilt and in his, ahem, business that instinct can often be the difference between survival and a terminal dip in Old Father Thames. I have said that I will call round there at ten o' clock tomorrow morning. Would you be able to accompany me?”</p><p>“Gladly”, he smiled.</p><p>He returned to his book but I could sense that he was pleased to have become involved in this matter. I smiled as I read on.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>In describing Mr. Kuznetsov's house to my friend as a mansion I had not understated the case. It occupied most of one side of one of the city's quieter tree-lined squares, but at least the front was fairly tasteful. A disdainful footman admitted us and took us into a small waiting-room while he took my card. He came swiftly back still looking at us as if we were something that the cat had dragged in having been told not to, but led us to his master.</p><p>Mr. Richard Kuznetsov was an unremarkable fellow, about forty-five years of age, slightly portly and clearly fighting a losing battle with hair loss but also possessed of a pair of sharp brown eyes which zeroed in on me. </p><p>“My friend Doctor Watson”, I said smoothly.</p><p>Our host's eyes narrowed. My friend's presence was clearly unwelcome so I headed off any objections with a swift question.</p><p>“Your footman is Russian?”</p><p>Mr. Kuznetsov blinked at that.</p><p>“Two of them are, but not Feodor”, he said. </p><p>I was sure that there had not been anything that out of the ordinary about my question, yet I still sensed my friend tense and look across at me. He was beginning to know me well.</p><p>“Then why does he have a Russian name?” I asked. </p><p>Mr. Kuznetsov shrugged his shoulders.</p><p>“He told me that he was christened Theodore”, he said, “but took the Russian version of that name because of his love for my other country. I believe that you were summonsed here to investigate my missing painting, sir? Not to inquire into the ancestry of my staff.”</p><p>“That is true”, I said. “I think that I would like to see the item before proceeding any further, if that is all right?”</p><p>Mr. Kuznetsov nodded, stood and led the way out of the room. After a considerable walk we found ourselves in a long gallery with the picture in question hanging on the wall in a prominent position in the middle of one wall. I examined it closely, having obtained a detailed picture of it in a catalogue which I had picked up. I looked at it for a while then leaned forward and lightly sniffed at it.</p><p>
  <i>Aha! The bird!</i>
</p><p>“I think that we should go back to your room, sir”, I said courteously, passing over the confused look on my client's face. “There are a number of questions that I need to ask which may help in the solving of the case.”</p><p>“Do you believe that Gregor is guilty?” our host asked, sounding almost fearful.</p><p>I did not answer until we were back in the room that we had set out from. </p><p>“Why do <i>you</i> think that he is not?” I countered. “The facts such as they are seem to be wholly against him.”</p><p>Our client frowned.</p><p>“In my line of business”, he said, “I like to play my gut feeling. It once stopped me from walking into a warehouse where three men were waiting to kill me, so I am sort of attached to it. Despite all the facts being as you said against him, somehow it does not <i>feel</i> right. I have no idea why, though.”</p><p>I nodded. I knew what he meant and, more importantly, that he was likely correct.</p><p>“In both cases it is the famed intuition, which the fairer sex would lay sole claim to”, I said. “You no doubt noticed something out of the corner of your eye and, although it did not consciously register, it gave you a distinct sense of unease. I would like to speak to your son, please.”</p><p>“I thought that you might”, he said. “He is waiting upstairs. I shall have him summoned.”</p><p>He rang a bell and a few moments later a servant showed in Gregor Kuznetsov. He was an unprepossessing reedy young blond fellow of about twenty years of age, with a weak chin and a most unfortunate attempt at what was presumably meant to have been a moustache. He looked at us all fearfully.</p><p>“I have just two questions for you”, I said, suppressing a smile as I caught my friend smugly patting his far superior facial adornment. “Firstly did anyone know you were coming round to the house on the day of the theft?”</p><p>The young man nodded then looked warily at his father.</p><p>“Mrs. Wells knew, sir.”</p><p>“My house-keeper?” his father asked, clearly astonished. </p><p>The young man turned to him.</p><p>“I wanted to discuss something..... delicate, father”, he said carefully. “I chanced to meet her in the park last week and she said to come yesterday because she was baking your favourite double chocolate cake.”</p><p>“The way to a man's heart!” Watson chuckled.</p><p>I smiled at his love for chocolate, and could guess from his expression that he was thinking hard as to how to get at that cake. Rather teasingly I went and licked my lips, and he blushed most satisfyingly.</p><p>“Secondly”, I said, “I would like to examine the ring that you are wearing.”</p><p>The young man looked appealingly at his father but the latter shrugged his shoulders and gestured for him to hand it over. I watched him closely and looked only briefly at the ring before handing it back with a smile.</p><p>“Thank you”, I said politely. “You may go.”</p><p>The young man looked to his father, who nodded his permission. Watson looked adorably perplexed at my actions.</p><p>“The case is almost complete”, I said, to the evident astonishment of both my friend and my client, “but I have one more request to make of you, sir. One which you may well find impertinent.”</p><p>“Hit me with it”, our host said gruffly.</p><p>“I wish to see your will.”</p><p><i>“You what!”</i> </p><p>“Please do not over-excite yourself, sir”, I said patiently. “I have most of what I need to prove who the guilty party is in this matter and your will is, I suspect, is the final link in the chain.”</p><p>My client looked angry but eventually relented and crossed to a bureau, where he extracted a key from his pocket and unlocked a small drawer. Taking out a sheaf of papers he handed them over to me. I read through them before handing them back. As I had thought.</p><p>“If you are thinking that my eldest was involved in this mess, you can think again”, he said firmly. “Ivan is away on business in Hull and will not be back until the weekend.”</p><p>“My thoughts were not actually running along those lines”, I said. “I believe that I have now solved the case although I am not quite sure that you will like the solution. I shall however need you to do something to force matters to a conclusion.”</p><p>“What is that?”</p><p>“An hour or so after our departure, please inform your staff that you are closing the house up and moving to your country retreat”, I said. “Say that you are leaving at nine o' clock tomorrow morning. I promise that Doctor Watson and I will call round at half-past eight.”</p><p>“You are coming with me?” he asked. </p><p>“Not exactly”, I said. “But I promise you a resolution within half an hour of our arrival. Good day, sir.”</p><p>I stood up, bowed and we both left.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>“If that man is one of the top criminals in the city”, Watson said anxiously once we were safely in a cab heading home, “surely it is not wise to make him wait?”</p><p>I sighed.</p><p>“I fear that Mr. Kuznetsov is in for an unpleasant surprise tomorrow”, I said. “”At least he will have his painting.”</p><p>“But he does have his painting”, he pointed out.</p><p>“A fake”, I said dryly.</p><p><i>“What?”</i> </p><p>He stared at me in astonishment.</p><p>“I would draw your attention to three things”, I said. “The footman who showed us in, the three birds flying into the distance on the extreme right of the painting, and the wording of Mr. Kuznetsov's will.”</p><p>“Only you saw that”, he objected.</p><p>“His estate is split between his sons of his blood body in decreasing proportion”, I said, “so for example two parts to the elder and one to the younger, save that if a beneficiary is in gaol at the time of his death then they cannot inherit.”</p><p>He stared at me, clearly trying to work this all out.</p><p>“So you are saying that Mr. Ivan Kuznetsov.....”</p><p>“Kingston-upon-Hull does have a railway station with fast trains to London”, I smiled. “Ah, we are home.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>#</p><p>The next day we arrived promptly at the Kuznetsov residence to find the place all a-bustle. Bags were heaped up in the hallway and the master of the house looked quite exasperated as we were shown in.</p><p>“Just why am I going to the country, Mr. Holmes?” he demanded. </p><p>I smiled at him.</p><p>“You are not.”</p><p><i>“What?”</i> </p><p>He blinked at me in confusion.</p><p>“You are going nowhere”, I said calmly. “If you take a seat I will explain. Is your butler to be trusted?”</p><p>He looked at me confusedly.</p><p>“Yes”, he said, “but why....”</p><p>“Kindly summon him if you please.”</p><p>Still looking bewildered, our host rang the bell. The butler promptly appeared. </p><p>“I would like to give your man an instruction, if I may”, I said.</p><p>“Go on”, Mr. Kuznetsov said.</p><p>I whispered something to the elderly man who looked surprised.</p><p>“That item is in the hall, sir”, he said crisply. </p><p>“Please bring it in here”, I said. </p><p>The butler nodded – a good servant if he was doing whatever strange thing a visitor had requested without asking why – and left. Less than a minute later he was back bearing a medium-sized carpet-bag with some effort, which I took and moved round to behind one of the chairs. </p><p>“The staff are all downstairs having breakfast as you requested, sir”, the butler intoned.</p><p>“As <i>you</i> requested?” Mr Kuznetsov demanded, clearly getting annoyed. “What is going on here?”</p><p>“I took the liberty of sending a message to your house-keeper”, I said, “to ask if she could serve a late breakfast so all your staff would be out of the way when I called.”</p><p>“Oh you did, did you?” our host asked. He was evidently not pleased.</p><p>“Yes”, I said. “Because I can now tell you about the theft of your painting.”</p><p>“Theft and return”, he corrected.</p><p>“No”, I said. “Just theft. The painting currently hanging in your gallery is an excellent copy. Done by one of the master copiers in the city and probably worth a fair sum in its own right, although not a patch on the original.”</p><p>The fellow gaped.</p><p>“So I <i>was</i> robbed! It was Gregor all along!”</p><p>I sighed heavily.</p><p>“Also sir, it would have been easier if you had told me <i>everything</i>”, I said plaintively. </p><p>“I did....”</p><p>“You did not mention that on the day of the theft, you received a hoax telegram that caused you to have to leave the house.”</p><p>His jaw dropped. He was clearly amazed at my omniscience, but then most people were.</p><p>“I can now tell you how the crime was accomplished”, I said, handing a slip of paper to the stunned man. “Please carry out the instructions therein <i>to the letter</i>.”</p><p>Mr. Kuznetsov pulled himself together and read my note, then rang one of the bells. Feodor, the disdainful footman from the day before, quickly appeared. </p><p>“Please bring Mr. Gregor to us, Feodor”, Mr. Kuznetsov said menacingly.</p><p>The footman nodded and left; I caught a narrowly-suppressed smirk on his way out. I looked pointedly at Watson and he understood; he was thinking that I expected the accused to make a run for it. He moved over to the door just in time for there to be a knock swiftly followed by the entrance of a worried-looking Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov and the footman. Feodor made to leave but Mr. Kuznetsov bade him remain for the moment,. I turned to our host.</p><p>“The good news is that I know where the stolen painting is, sir”, I said, bowing. “But before I tell you, I regret that I must cause you some pain. You asked me to investigate whether or not your youngest son stole your valuable painting. I regret to inform you that he did.”</p><p>Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov gasped. I noted that the footman took a half-step back before catching himself.</p><p>“Father, I swear that is not true!” the young man said roundly.</p><p>“I am sorry, but it is”, I said. “Sir, it happened like this. “At around two o' clock on the day of the theft, Feodor here hands you a telegram. I do not know the contents of that message but the effect, as desired, was to cause you to leave the house for a period of time. That message as you later discovered was a hoax, but it was essential that you not be here when your son arrived and that your absence last long enough for him to go away again.”</p><p>“Why?” Mr. Kuznetsov demanded. </p><p>I ignored him.</p><p>“At approximately half-past two Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov leaves his apartment for the ten-minute walk to his father's house”, I went on. “He believes that the only person who knows that he is coming is the housekeeper, but as we all know, servants gossip. Importantly Mr. Gregor is wearing his long-coat.”</p><p>“Why is that important?” Watson asked in his turn (I really wished that people would listen when I was talking).</p><p>“At approximately twenty minutes to three Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov arrives at this house and is shown into the waiting-room. He hands his coat to Feodor here who takes it and hangs it in the cloakroom – <i>but not without first extracting his house-keys!”</i></p><p>Watson was almost caught off-guard by the footman's desperate lunge for the door but fortunately he was both bigger and stronger than him, and Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov hurried across to assist him. The two of them soon had the fellow pinned to the floor, much to our host's astonishment.</p><p><i>“Feodor?”</i> he gasped. “But..... that is impossible!”</p><p>“Mr. Gregor had told the house-keeper that he was coming here at this time, and on hearing that your footman arranged for you to be out”, I said. “He had planned this ramp some time back which was why he had ready a copy of the painting made by one of London's best copiers, a Mr. Hebediah Woolsford of the Minories. His copies are excellent and, as I said, worth a lot in their own right, but he does insist on always adding his own mark to any copy that he does, a tiny letter 'W' worked into the painting somewhere. I closely examined a photograph of the original painting and I know that it has two birds flying in the far distance on the right, not three as your copy has.”</p><p>“Why did you not tell me that yesterday?” Mr. Kuznetsov demanded hotly.</p><p>“Because I wished for you to have a good night's sleep”, I said easily. “In light of what I knew about the case, I thought that you might well need it.”</p><p>I braced myself. I was about to tell a major criminal something very unpleasant indeed. There was the strong possibility if not an almost certainty that he would not take it well.</p><p>“Feodor slips out with both his fake painting and the keys that he has extracted from Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov's coat-pocket”, I went on. “A fit man, he makes it to his target's house in five minutes. I dare say that he was seen but naturally no-one thought to ask if anyone went into Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov's rooms at that time, since all the attention was on this house. Feodor leaves the painting poorly hidden – that in itself was suspicious as a real thief would surely have done better – and races back home. Fortuitously his absence has not been spotted and no-one has yet told Mr. Gregor that his father is unlikely to return for some hours, so Feodor tells him that and he leaves. Our criminal then goes to the gallery and takes the real painting from the wall, hiding it in his own room. When his master returns, Feodor arranges for one of the maids to clean the gallery knowing that she will see the gap on the wall and report it. You, Mr. Kuznetsov, link it to your son's visit and send your men round to his apartment where they easily find the copy. Because you are so relieved you do not think to check if it is a fake which, I am sorry to say, it was.”</p><p>Mr. Kuznetsov sat in stony silence. Feodor whimpered on the floor between Watson and Mr. Gregor Kuznetsov.</p><p>“By advising you to make an immediate move to the country I forestalled any attempt by the criminal to dispose of the painting”, I said. “His only hope was to take it with him” – I reached behind the chair for the suitcase and I saw the footman's face go even whiter – “so I believe that it should be in here.”</p><p>I opened the case and extracted a slim package which I unwrapped. Sure enough it was 'The Two Ladies'.</p><p>“But you were wrong on one thing”, Watson pointed out. “You said that the theft had been carried out by the youngest son.”</p><p>Mr. Kuznetsov had gone almost as pale as his footman. He knew full well what was coming next.</p><p><i>“That</i> was the motive”, I said quietly. “The precise wording of the will was that the estate was to be divided in proportion between <i>all</i> sons of the blood body, regardless of which side of the blanket they were born on. Three parts to the eldest son Mr. Ivan, two to Mr. Gregor here, and one to your youngest, Feodor. I suspected from when I saw him and you in the same room, sir, that he was your blood. The will which he chanced to learn of meant that he saw the removal of his half-brothers would make him even richer.” </p><p>I bowed to our ashen-faced host. </p><p>“Sorry I am to say it sir, but had you pursued charges against your son Gregor then I fear you and your eldest son would both have suffered 'accidents' not long after his incarceration. Mr. Gregor here would have been debarred because of his criminal record and your.... 'servant' would inherit all.”</p><p>Mr. Kuznetsov shuddered. </p><p>“What are you going to do?” he managed.</p><p>“I am employed by you in merely a private capacity”, I said gently. “The way in which you choose to deal with what has happened today is solely up to you, sir.” </p><p>I turned to Watson. </p><p>“Doctor, I think that our presence here is no longer required.”</p><p>My friend nodded and let got of the crumpled footman. We left Mr. Kuznetsov and his son – both his sons – in the large, lonely house.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div><p>Very wisely I did not charge my client for his services as such, except to say that I hoped that he would make it clear to his 'acquaintances' that he now regarded me as a friend and would not take kindly to any moves against me (i.e. 'not take kindly' as in 'provide a one-way tour of the Thames river-bed with non-optional concrete footwear'). I knew that such an action, considering the many enemies that I would surely amass over the coming years, was worth far more than any sum of money. </p><p>Mr. Kuznetsov arranged for his 'footman' to be transferred to his sole property back in Russia, an act of leniency which surprised me somewhat – until I found out the property in question was in the far east of Siberia! Brr!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVI</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Rot And Asses</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>January 1877. A case down in rural Hampshire, where an archaeological dig has resulted in an attempted theft and the uncovering of a whole load of asses. A careless Sherlock upsets his friend but he does make it up to him later.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mentioned elsewhere (if somewhat erroneously) as 'the Andover case'.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This curious little case, the one reference to which was misspelled by Watson's publisher many years later, was important for two reasons. Firstly it was another where my friend helped to provide the solution, Secondly and much more importantly it brought home to me that my annoying sister Moira may have been verging on being not that far from correct when she said that certain aspects of my character might one day be marginally annoying to said friend. Worse, as it was Moira she was bound to find out despite this story not having been among the original ones published (she did, but then the sun also rose in the east that day which was equally unsurprising). Watson's reference to it elsewhere was as 'the Andyke case' but a careless publisher changed that to 'Andover'. Modern education has a lot to answer for!</p><p>What with having to avoid the horror of a family Christmas and other matters on hand, I was perhaps a tad less attentive to my friend that I arguably might have been. I knew that he had been upset by the news that month of the ongoing efforts by the United States to crush the rebel Sioux who had finally been defeated at the Battle of Wolf Mountain; it still seemed strange to someone of our era that news of a battle fought many thousands of miles away had been in the London news-papers the very next day, thanks to the transatlantic telegraph cable. But then that was technology for you.</p><p>I had hoped that this seemingly minor matter might help pull my friend out of his current bad mood. Instead it got worse – and I was honest enough to admit that that was perhaps ever so slightly verging on partly being my fault. </p><p>
  <i>How the blazes can I hear my sister smirking?</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Having spent a night in the small town of Whitchurch, Watson and I were crossing the barren fields of north Hampshire on our way to visit the Andyke, which apparently was both an ancient earthwork and the scene of a modern-day theft. Our driver and host was one Mr. Peter Goodfellow, an affable flaxen-haired fellow of about thirty years of age who very clearly knew his subject well.</p><p>“As I am sure you gentlemen are aware”, he said, “the idea of a lady archaeologist raised more than a few eyebrows when Miss Sutherland first joined our 'dig'. Several of the older members were quite shocked as she is, er, a little modern in her approach. But to be fair she has worked as hard as any of us, which is why this whole business has come as quite a shock.”</p><p>“Tell us about this 'dig', please”, I said. </p><p>“Hampshire was where the ancient West Saxon kingdom, forerunner to England, was founded”, he said. “But the native Celts did not give up without a fight. When the West Saxon King Cerdic tried to fight his way up the River Test they used a combination of hill-forts and earthworks to block his way. Or rather they tried to; he overcame them all from what we have found. Sadly there are no written records from those times which is why our work is so important.”</p><p>
  <i>(I should insert here that current historical understanding, which is more than likely to change given that disputatious field of study, is that our host was both right and wrong in that. It seems that the original West Saxon kingdom was founded in the upper Thames Valley south and west of Oxford – the town of Abingdon may have been the capital – but that the name later transferred to King Cerdic's kingdom.)</i>
</p><p>“The earthwork that we are working on is called the Andyke”, Mr. Goodfellow continued. “We think that the name comes from an old word referring to giants as the works are so large. It seems that the king took the small Roman settlement at Leucomagus but it was not the way of his people to live in such places unless they had good walls, so he abandoned it and set up nearby Andover which being on a river had a better water supply. The Celts fell back to their defensive line here. It was almost their last stand; once he was across the dyke the king could effectively surround his future capital at Venta, what is now Winchester, on three sides. We are not certain however as to how long the dyke was held against him.”</p><p>“Why so?” I asked. I had little if any interest in history but I could see that Watson was fascinated by these events from around fourteen hundred years ago. </p><p>“We know from another dig down at Winchester that the ancient walls there were reinforced on the southern side of the town but not the northern one”, Mr. Goodfellow said. “That implies there was a threat to the south that lasted long enough for them to go to the trouble of strengthening their defences against it, but that the northern threat must have come upon them before they had time to do anything. That in turn meant that the Saxons must have overrun the Andyke fairly easily – except that buried in the earthwork here we found a leather pouch of some forty ancient coins. It seems an odd place to hide something like that; we would have expected them to have only been hidden somewhere safe.”</p><p>“I did not know that the early Saxons used coins”, Watson said.</p><p>“Not their own”, the archaeologist said, “but they did sometimes use old Roman coins. Also in those days, coins were worth what one exchanged them for; a silver pound really was a pound of silver.”</p><p>“I would have thought a huge earthwork fairly safe”, Watson said. </p><p>I shook my head at him. And he had been doing so well.</p><p>“Watson, such earthworks were like the outer part of a castle wall”, I said. “The defenders would have been based close by so they could be summonsed to defend it when the attack came. You would not place your worldly goods where the enemy could advance to within yards of it. Even thought they might not be aware of its location they would likely have found it when sacking the place afterwards.”</p><p>I could see that he was quite clearly thinking me a show-off, so I nodded at him. He reddened most pleasurably.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I have to say that the Andyke, when we reached it, did not overly impress me. I suppose that all the intervening centuries were bound to have inflicted some wear and tear but it seemed like just a large ditch and bank marching across the landscape through which the London to Exeter road had been thrust at right-angles. Watson too seemed less than impressed with it.</p><p>“It would have been higher and with a far deeper ditch in its day”, our host explained, “plus it would have been topped with a high wooden palisade. A mile or so south it blocks the Dever Valley which was the way King Cerdic would have wanted to advance on Winchester. Most of the area around would have been heavy forest back then so we think that they most likely cleared the area in front of the dyke in order to make spotting an approaching enemy easier and hit them with arrow-fire.”</p><p>“I wonder why they did not just go round the thing”, Watson wondered.</p><p>“People forget how different England was then”, Mr. Goodfellow said. “The forests were pretty much impenetrable plus there was always the danger that an ambush might be laid. The West Saxon state was still small; it did not have the manpower for anything more than an advance along the easiest paths like the old Roman roads and river valleys. That was likely why the people of Winchester did not initially have to bother about their northern walls; they knew their enemies did not have the strength to fully besiege them. Unfortunately for them they underestimated how fast they could move to counter that.”</p><p>“How did this trouble concerning Miss Sutherland arise?” I asked. </p><p>“We have our digs in the nearest large village, Sutton Scotney”, Mr. Goodfellow said, “but our base of operations is Whitchurch. When Matt – Mr. Chilton – uncovered the coins, they were taken to the room we have in the pub there where we keep our finds and plan the 'dig'. The next day they were gone and someone started a rumour that the bag had been seen in Miss Sutherland's room. It turned out to be true.”</p><p>“Had the coins been verified?” I asked. </p><p>Our host looked surprised.</p><p>“We had arranged to have an expert come down and check them”, he said, a little defensively I noted. “He is due down this weekend. I had looked at them and they had seemed genuine enough.”</p><p>“And now they are gone”, I said. “Interesting.”</p><p>“But we do have something”, Mr. Goodfellow said. “I did a rubbing for five of the coins as I was going to send them to London for an archaeological magazine where my friend works. I still have those. Would you like to see them?”</p><p>“I would”, I said. “Once we are out of this gusty wind, that is. Tell me about the gentleman who found them.”</p><p>For some reason our host winced.</p><p>“Matt again”, he said. “You see he – well, he was engaged to Miss Sutherland some months back, but it did not work out.”</p><p>“Who broke it off?” I asked, noting that Watson was surprised by such a personal question.</p><p>“I believe that he did”, Mr. Goodfellow said, also clearly surprised by my interest in such a matter. “They got together because of their shared interest in archaeology and her coming down here after him – it was dashed awkward.”</p><p>“And you said that Mr. Chilton was the one who found the coins in the first place”, I said, seeing quite clearly where this was heading. </p><p>He nodded.</p><p>“Were any other coins or such found on the site?” I asked.</p><p>“Only one”, our host said. There was a small hole in the pouch; this one coin had fallen out and got separated from the others. I have it here.”</p><p>He produced a small box from his pocket and handed it to me. Fortunately I had had the time to visit a numismatics expert who Moira had recommended to me before coming down. I examined the coin closely.</p><p>“Interesting”, I said. “Are you a student of Roman history, sir?”</p><p>“No”, Mr. Goodfellow admitted. “The Dark Ages is my special field. I do not suppose that just one coin tells you much.”</p><p>The coin was small, dirty and had jagged edges, frankly a perfect demonstration of that phrase 'spectacularly uninteresting'. In faded writing I could however just make out 'POSTVMVS', which I found most illuminating. I passed the coin to Watson for him to examine. </p><p>“Possibly named for a son born after his father had died”, he suggested. “I suppose that he was emperor at the time that the coin was minted. Except for its age it is hardly remarkable.”</p><p>“On the contrary”, I said. “This is an <i>as</i>, and likely a key element to establishing the guilty party in this case.”</p><p>They both stared at me.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Once we were back at Whitchurch I immediately went out to dispatch a telegram, and on my return I asked to see the rubbings that Mr. Goodfellow had made of the lost coins. Watson stared at me in puzzlement, especially when I took some time examining the one of a coin with 'Augustus' on it and questioned our host on what he remembered of it. I also grilled him about the pouch that the coins had come in before letting the fellow depart for his supper.</p><p>“Why were you so interested in the bag rather than the coins in it?” my friend asked. “Surely the bag is not worth anything?”</p><p>I shook my head at him.</p><p>“You do not see it, Watson”, I said. “Empathize for a moment; put yourself in the shoes of some Dark Ages lord in the sixth century facing conquest and slavery, if not death. Are you really going to hide your wealth on the very front line against the enemy, the very first place that they will likely overrun and which they will likely find when they level the defences later? Also, my interest in the bag was because it was a bag.”</p><p>He looked at me in his usual adorable confusion.</p><p>“Pardon?”</p><p>“Someone rich enough to have forty or more coin is not going to entrust them to some tatty leather pouch”, I said, perhaps a touch disdainfully. “That would be the act of a complete imbecile!”</p><p>He reddened at not having spotted that and turned away from me. Belatedly I realize that I have have gone perhaps a little too far.</p><p>“I am sorry, friend”, I said quietly. “I would not do this without you, you know that.”</p><p>“I am going out for a walk”, he said stiffly. “I will see you later.”</p><p>“But supper is in ten minutes”, I pointed out.</p><p>“Oh rot! I am not hungry.”</p><p>He stormed out, clearly angry. I felt dreadful – but in that parting shot he had given me a rather good idea.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I knew that my friend would, whatever he said, arrive back hungry so I arranged for a late dinner to be started immediately he came in. He was clearly still angry with me and I had to resort to using what he called my 'bacon look'.</p><p>“Good, you are back”, I said. “I am sorry for being so rude to you earlier, friend. I sent down to delay our supper until your return but they will have started it when they saw you return.”</p><p>He blushed but nodded his acceptance of my apology. However I knew that I had upset a good friend and that I clearly needed to do more. Luckily there was something not far away that would enable me to do just that.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>The following day we met Miss Mary Sutherland. I cannot say that she impressed me; she seemed to be striving far too hard to be a Modern Woman and while I appreciated that a lady could hardly work on a 'dig' in a full dress, she was clearly aiming to be 'one of the boys'. Worst of all, she simpered at me! Ugh!</p><p>“I have no idea how that pouch got there”, she said, rather defensively I thought. “Besides why would <i>I</i> of all people take it? I can hardly hawk it around London, can I?”</p><p>“I am sure that you know as well as I do”, I said smoothly, “that there are many collectors willing to pay a high price to acquire what their rivals have not, regardless of any legal niceties involved. Many of the rich consider that laws are solely for the little people.”</p><p>I caught a definite hint of alarm in her face before she covered it. She glared at me.</p><p>“I do not move in such circles, <i>sir”,</i> she said loftily. “Besides, if you really are the know-all that they say you are, you will know that I have not been charged nor will I ever be!”</p><p>I could see Watson wondering at her assuredness on that point, but I just smiled at her before leaving.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>“Why was she so confident about not being charged?” my friend asked me once we were away. “The facts look to be against her.”</p><p>“For one thing she believes that the company in charge of the 'dig' will not wish for the publicity”, I said. “Also she is waiting for the surprise witness to emerge and clear her name.”</p><p>He stared suspiciously at me.</p><p>“You are guessing!” he said accusingly. </p><p>I stared at him in what was obviously mock offence.</p><p>“I <i>never</i> 'guess'”, I said loftily. “Today or tomorrow she will be cleared, and the spotlight will turn on someone else.”</p><p>I could see that he did not believe me. Well, time would tell.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>We met with Mr. Goodfellow barely an hour later and he was brimming with news.</p><p>“You will not believe it, sir”, he said. “Miss Sutherland is in the clear! A surprise witness has come forward!”</p><p>I gave Watson a far too innocent smile and he pouted his annoyance at me. Hah!</p><p>“What surprise witness?” he asked sourly.</p><p>“One of the serving-girls at the pub was going to her room and saw Mr. Chilton going into Miss Sutherland's room”, Mr. Goodfellow said excitedly. “She did not say anything about it at the time because.... er, you know.”</p><p>“No, I do not 'know'”, I said innocently. “What?”</p><p>“Do not be mean, Holmes!” my friend chided. “So the two of them were back together, I take it?”</p><p>Mr. Goodfellow shook his head.</p><p>“She knew that Miss Sutherland was downstairs at the time because she had just seen her there”, he said. “Also Mr. Chilton was carrying a small pouch – which was not on him when he emerged!”</p><p>“A most observant young wench”, I smiled. “What is her name? I would like to ask her more about this observation of hers that she has remembered in such a timely manner.”</p><p>“May. She is the red-headed one.”</p><p>“I shall go and see her at once”, I said rising to his feet. “I will join you again shortly.</p><p>“He had better watch out”, I heard Mr. Goodfellow said to my friend as I departed. “That May is a character and then some. I would not put it past her to inveigle any man into her bedchamber, and that includes your friend.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Knowing how much Watson always feared the worst, it was arguably bad of me to mess my hair up even more than usual before I returned from seeing a very chastened serving-girl. To a medical personage who gave me a very suspicious look. Even better, there was a telegram from London which tied up the very last loose end in this case.</p><p>“The case is concluded”. I said, taking a seat. “I have asked Miss Sutherland to join us and we can set about bringing justice upon those who merit it.”</p><p>I was sure that one of the two men with us flinched though I did not see which one. Fortunately we only had to wait a couple of minutes before Miss Sutherland (thankfully wearing some rather more feminine attire) joined us, pointedly sitting as far away as possible from Mr. Chilton. I thanked her for coming and began.</p><p>“There are three parts to this case”, I said. “Indeed, for what started out like a theft of some old coins it has blossomed remarkably into something much larger. As a result of my investigations one of you here will be facing some most unpleasant consequences very soon.”</p><p>I noted that they all shuffled in their seats at that.</p><p>“The first thing that struck me”, I said, “was not the coins but the pouch that they came in. Why would our Celtic nobleman have a haul of coins then already some centuries old and clearly worth a lot, yet not have been able to have afforded at least a cheap metal box to better protect his wealth? I commented on this most harshly to my friend the doctor here who reacted quite justifiably, and in doing so demonstrated my own foolishness in not seeing the obvious.”</p><p>“I did?” Watson asked, clearly surprised. </p><p>I nodded.</p><p>“You said, 'rot'”, I said. “I immediately thought back to the chalky ground in which the pouch had been discovered. Water drains through chalk very easily and would surely have rotted away any pouch, even one made of leather, in the millennium or more that it had purportedly been there. That was the second fact that suggested the coins themselves were fakes.”</p><p>“Fakes? Mr. Chilton asked, alarmed. “How the blazes could you know that? We did not have that expert here in time to look at them.”</p><p>I fixed him with a look.</p><p>“From the one coin that survived and my prior investigations, I had suspicions”, I said. “I dispatched a number of telegrams to London after my visit to the site yesterday. One of them was to request from a historian friend the dates of all the Roman Emperors as well as certain other information. The surviving coin purported to be from the reign of of the Emperor Postumus – but it was very obviously a fake.”</p><p>“How could you know that?” Watson asked.</p><p>“Because someone simply took a list of all the emperors, extracted some names at random from different eras and had fake asses – yes Watson, that <i>is</i> the plural – made.”</p><p>My friend blushed deeply. As if predicting his terrible sense of humour had been <i>that</i> difficult!</p><p>“However”, I went on, still eyeing my friend disapprovingly, “Postumus was actually not a Roman Emperor. He ruled a breakaway territory, the so-called Gallic Empire of which Britannia was for a time a part but I have since had confirmed that he did not issue any coins during his rule. My belief was further reinforced by Mr. Goodfellow's rubbings which showed a second of the lost coins to be from Emperor Augustus.”</p><p>“Now I know that <i>he</i> was real!” Watson said. </p><p>I smiled at him.</p><p>“He was”, I said, “but he was also a reformer. Mr. Goodfellow confirmed that the coin he took the rubbing from was made of copper, but Augustus made his asses from bronze.”</p><p>I looked pointedly at my friend, who was clearly struggling to keep a straight face with all these 'asses'. Honestly, he was terrible!</p><p>“I also asked an acquaintance of mine who specializes in high-quality forgeries as to whether anyone he knew had been asked to create a set of old Roman coins of late”, I said. “He asked around, and an acquaintance of his had been asked by a young fellow with dark hair to do just that.”</p><p>Everyone's eyes turned on Mr. Chilton, who reddened under our gazes.</p><p>“I have no idea what you are talking about”, he said defensively.</p><p>“The unfortunate thing for our criminal”, I said, “was they overlooked the fact that forgers require the very best senses for their trade. The man who created those coins had not only excellent eyesight but a sharp sense of <i>smell</i>. Hence he was a little confused as to why the young 'gentleman' who requested his services was seemingly wearing a lavender-based perfume similar to the one favoured by his good lady wife.”</p><p>As one we all turned to look at Miss Sutherland. She tossed her head at us but said nothing.</p><p>“You decided that you were not the sort of person to be so lightly tossed aside by Mr. Chilton here”, I said softly. “You planted those coins for him to find, then placed them in his room so that he might seem to have tried to steal them. The serving-girl whom you recompensed adequately but not adequately enough was more than willing to admit her role in the set-up, once she realized that she herself could go to gaol for bearing false witness. Not, I might add, that it stopped her from trying to flatter her way out of the entanglement by means of her own wiles.”</p><p>I heard Watson's sudden exhale as he realized that I had not done what he had thought. I looked at him in mock surprise as he blushed deeply.</p><p>“”I have done nothing illegal”, Miss Sutherland said. “And you will not be taking me to court.”</p><p>“Why will we not?” Mr. Chilton asked angrily.</p><p>“For one thing, you would need to know her real name”, I said. “Miss Mary Sutherland is in fact Miss Maria McEwan, cousin to the Duke of Sutherland¹. For all the good works that that gentleman has done especially in his native Highlands, he does not deserve to be tarred by the same brush as his blood.”</p><p>The harridan grinned triumphantly.</p><p>“However”, I said sharply, “while a case for <i>entrapment</i> would be difficult to prove, there is the not insignificant crime of <i>impersonation.”</i></p><p>The three gentlemen looked at me in confusion, but I noticed that the woman had gone rather pale. Good.</p><p>“The noble Duke granted a generous allowance to Miss McEwan's father, his cousin Mr. Reynold McEwan”, I explained. “It is the practice of noble families to support offspring some distance from the main branch so that allowance was to expire on Mr. McEwan's death. Which the noble duke will doubtless find surprising as that happened some five years ago. The letters he has been receiving since thanking him for his munificence have all been written by the dead man's daughter. Fortunately he has now been corrected in that mistake and I am sure that he will be instructing his lawyers to pursue the 'lady' here for the return of all the moneys that she fraudulently obtained.”</p><p>How Miss McEwan managed to get from a sitting position to throw herself at me while screaming a whole set of unrepeatable and quite inventive obscenities, I do not know.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>“I am just glad to be getting away from here”, Watson said, as we waited outside for the cab that I had ordered. “Especially that dreadful serving-girl. She was only after one thing!”</p><p>I smiled knowingly. I could see when doubt began to cross his mind.</p><p>“You did not... did you?” he asked.</p><p>“Did not what, Watson?” I asked innocently.</p><p>He glared at me.</p><p>“I did not”, I admitted. “But I find your reaction... interesting.”</p><p>That small bout of teasing earned me a major pout, but fortunately for him our ride turned up at that moment. We travelled for some little distance before he realized that we were heading south, not north.</p><p>“We are not going back to Whitchurch for the train home?” he asked.</p><p>I took a deep breath.</p><p>“You said how much you enjoyed looking round ancient cathedrals and old churches”, I said casually. “I remember that you mentioned once how you had always wanted to see the cathedral in Winchester.”</p><p>He stared at me in surprise.</p><p>“Thank you”, he said quietly.</p><p>And he actually smiled. That made it worth another night in Hampshire.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
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  <i>Notes:</i>
  <br/>
  <i>1) George Granville William Sutherland-Leveson-Gower (born 1828), duke since 1861. The grandson of the 1st Duke and Duchess who had been involved in the infamous Highland Clearances, the third duke was a far more noble character. He supported charities for injured soldiers and personally paid for part of the Highland Railway line to link his estate and the Far North of Scotland to the railway system.</i>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Thyme And Tide</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>February 1877. Sherlock goes up the Thames to where a body had been found floating in the great river. It seems at first like a simple case of drowning, but something is amiss and it is the unlikeliest of characters who eventually provides the answer.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Shortly after we had arrived back from our Hampshire case I was able to help Watson over an unexpected familial loss. I mentioned during that my friend's angst over the United States' treatment of the Red Indian tribes and a late coda to the recent Sioux Wars had seen the death in action of my friend's uncle, Jonathan, who had he not have emigrated would have been responsible for the administration of his brother Henry's estate five years back and might thus have meant that Watson and I might never have met.</p><p>It was an unusually cold winter that year, I thought.</p><p>Anglo-American relations then were difficult to put it mildly, the Americans still resenting British assistance to the Confederacy during what one of their historians had incredibly referred to as 'The Recent Unpleasantness'. However my brother Mark was able to use his contacts to speed the settlement of the late Captain Jonathan Watson's estate which, although not particularly large, was divided into four parts one of which went to his fellow officers while the others were shared out among my friend, his lawyer brother up in Edinburgh, and their cousin Doctor Edward Watson who would in six years' time contrive to wreck my happy existence.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>My next case same as a jolt to me, as although I knew that something was not right about a death, I was unable to place my finger on just what that something was. Indeed, once again had it not been for my friend's presence I may have had to chalk this down as a case where I had failed.</p><p>I had hoped that my brother Mark having helped settle my friend's American uncle's estate might have put our friendship safely back on track, until a careless member of my family went and threatened to derail it again. To wit, my brother Mark.</p><p>As I have mentioned, both Mark and Logan had their 'gentleman friends', Logan the irrepressible Ajax who seemed to leave my brother in a worse state each time that I saw him and always glowered menacingly at me every time that we met, and Mark who now had Tiny (Mr. Anthony Little) as a footman. My problem was Logan's Debating Societies, which I was wary about Watson finding out about. For all his qualities my friend could likely have featured in a dictionary under the word 'conservative', and I did not know how he would react to discovering that I had family members who did.... that sort of thing. It had been bad enough when I had had to point out Logan and Ajax in the park that one time, the huge silent fellow almost draped over my brother (and somehow able to scowl at me from nearly fifty yards away!). I was sure that Watson had put two and two together but there was a rather large gap between having a 'gentleman friend' and running a chain of Debating Societies. A gap wider than the Grand Canyon!</p><p>So I was not best pleased when Tiny dropped by with a message (fortunately when Watson was out) asking if my friend could come round and treat Mark because.... well, because. I knew, as I was regrettably possessed of brothers to whom oversharing was seemingly not considered a problem, that in the vernacular of the Debating Societies Tiny very much preferred to 'bowl' rather than 'bat', and Mark had told me that the behemoth had this terrible Sad Face he pulled whenever he wanted to have his way. My brother had looked very hard at me for some reason when he had said that and I was sure that he had also muttered the word 'bacon' for some reason, but I had had no idea as to why.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Mark had not said exactly what was wrong with him, and I wondered if I would dare ask Watson or if he would invoke patient confidentiality. It could not have been that bad as that because my friend was smiling.</p><p>“Your brother is fine”, he said reassuringly, “and he will soon be his old self.”</p><p>That was a relief, I thought. Mark was one of the family members that I actually liked, despite his occasional boastfulness. Although now I could always slip Tiny some free 'supplies' from a certain special shop. Or arrange for Balin and Balan to call by unexpectedly. Or possibly both.....</p><p>“That is good”, I said. “Mother would have been very concerned if he had broken something.”</p><p>To my surprise he sniggered at that.</p><p>“What?” I asked.</p><p>“He just sprained his wrist”, he said.</p><p>There seemed nothing unusual about that, I thought. My brother was usually quite careful and physically fit, so why would he..... oh Lord no! Bad mental image, really bad mental image!</p><p>Watson snickered.</p><p><i>“That</i> was what he was doing when he broke his wrist!”</p><p>He was most definitely smirking. I decided that I did not like him after all!</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>A few days later and just about when I had managed to rid my mind of some unwonted mental images, we received a call from one Sergeant Harold Hook of the Middlesex Police. A body had been found floating in the Thames and 'there were problems'. Thinking that they must have been bad to have merited such vagueness in a telegram from a police-officer I headed off; I did not have Watson with me but he was I knew tending to a patient out in Walham Green which was not far away from where the body had been found, so I dispatched my own telegram hoping to catch him before heading off. I was fortunate; I just caught him and he was actually there waiting for me on the banks of the mighty river. As was the sergeant, a rotund but sharp-looking fellow of about forty years of age.</p><p>“You can see the problem, sir”, he said as we entered the shed where the recovered body had been temporarily stored.</p><p>I nodded. Watson looked at me curiously.</p><p>“What problem?” he asked. “Apart from the fact that a fellow is dead?”</p><p>“The sergeant is referring to the fact that the river hereabouts marks the border between Middlesex and Surrey”, I said. “That the body was found in it means there will be a question as to which constabulary has jurisdiction in the matter.”</p><p>This would in fact be a feature of several of our cases, sometimes a deliberate one and sometimes accidental. It was just as bad in the capital; all three of my policemen friends bemoaned any investigation that occurred near the edge of a 'patch' as another area might try to claim ownership and, of course, any credit. Things were further complicated in the city by the steady expansion of the police service which of course meant more stations and frequently redrawn boundaries. I frankly wished that they might remember that they were all supposed to be on the same side, but then even in such an important service there are bound to be some who had never really grown up.</p><p>I looked quickly over the body of the dead man. He had been a young fellow of about twenty years of age, thin but not underfed, and had clearly done some sort of manual work from the condition of his hands. </p><p>“A gardener?” I hazarded.</p><p>The sergeant looked at me pointedly, then gazed down-river. Ah, <i>now</i> I saw why he had asked for our help.</p><p>“There was a small pouch in his pocket, sir”, he said. “Sodden from the river of course, but I took them to the garden-shop in town and they told me what they were. Thyme, they said.”</p><p>“A gardener could have come from anywhere”, Watson said.</p><p>“Very true”, I agreed, “but the other side of the river there is the mighty Ham House, which will have a whole bevy of gardeners. I wonder if one of them might be missing?”</p><p>“Earl Lionel has a reputation for being a bit of a Tartar”, the sergeant said. “Not someone I would want to upset, 'specially with me having a family.”</p><p>“Whereas if I make some discreet inquiries he may be more amenable”, I said, seeing even more why I had been brought in on this. “Who found the body?”</p><p>“Hugh Madoc, the boatman”, the sergeant said dubiously. “I do not know how he scrapes a living off the river. He's a bit simple <i>and</i> he's Welsh!”</p><p>I smiled at the fellow's mild xenophobia.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Watson did a thorough examination of the body then went to confer with the police-doctor at the sergeant's station. I strolled along the river-bank and looked across to the huge estate opposite; the big house was a couple of miles down-river and around a bend so out of sight. At least the river itself was rather cleaner than it had been not so long ago, although it still had some way to go before I would have wanted to bathe in it.</p><p>My friend rejoined me but did not have much to tell.</p><p>“He appears to have died from a heart-attack, despite his tender years”, he said. “There are no marks on his body and no sign of poison, even allowing for him having been in the river. Did you talk to the fellow who found him?”</p><p>“I did not think that he would have much to add”, I said. “The body must have floated here from the house, which leaves us to work out how he died and if any fair play was involved. I could always ask the boat-man to row us across?”</p><p>He scowled at me for that. I knew by this time that he did not like any water-crossings, even one on the flat calm of this river. </p><p>“There is a footbridge a mile down river”, he said frostily, “and although it leads directly onto the estate that is where we need to go. Although I doubt that Earl Lionel will be pleased to see even a great consulting-detective.”</p><p>I decided that that had been just catty. All right, if that was how he wanted it.....</p><p>“Do you know anything about the family?” I asked casually.</p><p>He nodded.</p><p>“He became the earl back in 'Forty and had proven mostly ineffective”, he said. “They say the place is dangerous to live in, so little has he bothered to maintain it. Although he is better than his son William, Lord Hightower was. He was a complete rake; marriages, mistresses and financial wrongdoing all over the place so it was frankly amazing that he managed one legitimate son. He died five years back – sheer exhaustion, most likely – and his own son William must be nearly eighteen now. I would wager that the earl and his grandson must be desperate for the latter to attain his majority; there are rumours that one or more of the mistresses may have actually married Lord William and so may claim the title¹ for their.....”</p><p>Belatedly he saw the trap that I had set, and blushed fiercely. I did not smirk.</p><p>“Shut up!” he grumbled.</p><p>A knowing smile is not the same as a smirk.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>On Watson's suggestion (once he had stopped pouting!) I wired ahead to Earl Lionel who, very grudgingly, agreed to accept a short visit from me alone. As I had known would have happened he had learned of the discovery of the body, and admitted (reluctantly, I thought) that yes, a young gardener called Alec Tipping was unaccounted for. I was sure that he was hiding something from me but he was most unpleasant, which was one reason that I wished to be done with him and out of there. The other was that Watson had been right about the house; I was sure that I saw some flakes falling from the ceiling as I crossed the hall.</p><p>I returned to my friend feeling disgruntled that this case did not seem to be progressing, only to find him looking unusually thoughtful.</p><p>“What is it?” I asked.</p><p>“I spoke to Hugh, the boatman”, he said. “He did have something useful to say. He told me that the body had to have been placed where it was found, and could not have just drifted from the river by the house.”</p><p>“He thinks that the house was not involved?” I asked dubiously.</p><p>He shook is head.</p><p>“I rather think he knows how the fellow met his end”, he said. “He saw him from the river several times, always going into the small cottage in the grounds. And he was not alone.”</p><p>“Who was with him?” I asked.</p><p>“Lady Jane Dysart, the earl's granddaughter”, he said. “He said, and I quote, “I don't think they were heading off to play rummy'!”</p><p>I thought for a moment.</p><p>“But why does he think that the body had to have been moved?” I asked.</p><p>“He told me that the river is only tidal as far as Teddington”, he said, “about a mile north of where the body was found. Beyond that it always floats towards the sea, so a body could not have drifted up-river. It had to have been carried.”</p><p>I felt a little ashamed that I had neglected the boatman's testimony, and grateful that I had a friend who could remedy my very occasional minor failings. </p><p>“The late Mr. Alec Tipping's body needs to be examined again”, I said. “Then, we shall go and see Lady Jane.”</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>While Watson re-examined the victim I made a point of dropping in on Mr. Madoc and thanking him for his help, and tipping him accordingly.</p><p>“Did he die that way, sir?” he asked blithely.</p><p>“I am afraid that he did”, I said.</p><p>He chuckled.</p><p>“Definitely the way to go, sir!”</p><p>I glared at him and nearly took back my tip! I had more than enough of that from Logan and Mark, thank you very much!</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Watson's re-examination went as expected, and I sent to Earl Lionel that we wished to see him <i>and</i> his granddaughter. Again a message came back that I was to come alone, but this time I ignored it. I had been foolish to have accepted the first time, especially from someone involved in what this fellow had done.</p><p>The earl scowled when he saw Watson's presence, but fortunately my friend was too busy casting anxious glances at the ceiling to notice; a few more flakes were falling which even I found worrying. His granddaughter was an unprepossessing female of some twenty-five years of age and clearly someone used to getting her own way in life. Regardless of the (in this instance fatal) consequences.</p><p>“I know about Mr. Tipping”, I said. “I know about the steward. And I know about the goings-on in that cottage in your grounds.”</p><p>The woman turned pale at my omniscience. The earl looked curiously at his granddaughter, then at me. </p><p>“What have you done, Jane?” he asked.</p><p>“This woman has been using – abusing – her status to force a handsome young gardener to let her have her way with him whenever she so chose”, I said, noting as I did how the woman turned even paler. “The other day he died during one such encounter, which not unnaturally left her in a somewhat difficult position. She called on your steward to arrange to transport the dead body upstream, knowing that the local constabularies were not likely to wish to anger the owner of the big house.”</p><p>“You have no proof!” she sneered.</p><p>“You mean apart from the light-grey threads of your steward's coat which were found on then dead man?” I asked dryly.</p><p>Watson nodded dutifully. That was good of him; he knew as well as I did that the threads had never existed.</p><p>“We did nothing wrong”, the woman insisted.</p><p>I glared at her.</p><p>“You are as responsible for that young man's death as if you had thrust a dagger into his heart”, I said firmly. “Were it not for the fact that he has a family who would be mortified if the truth were to come out, I would have no compunction about going to the newspapers with this.”</p><p>“Cut to the chase, sir”, the earl said. “Name your price.”</p><p>“The late Mr. Tipping's mother”, I said. “You will purchase her house anonymously then transfer the deed to them. You will pay her, his three brothers and his two sisters fifty pounds² each. You will do this within a month.”</p><p>He looked surprised at my demands, but nodded. Which was just as well; I was quite prepared to go public if needed.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>“That is the way people like them behave”, Watson sighed as we left the place and headed off to find a cab that would take us back to Montague Street. “And they always seem to get away with it.”</p><p>“But expensively”, I said. “And I will be watching them to make sure that they do comply with the terms I laid out.”</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>It was fortunate that I did do just that, for the earl did not exactly put himself about to fulfil his side of our deal. Until I sent him a society-magazine and reminded him that he had three days left unless he wanted to be the star feature of the next issue.</p><p>He paid up before the end of the day.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
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  <i>Notes:</i>
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  <i>1) One of them did try that when Earl Lionel died the year after this story is set, albeit unsuccessfully. The house had pretty much fallen to ruin under his tenure but was restored by his grandson and successor Earl William; Lady Jane is not real. The house later passed to the National Trust, so is doubtless 'marketed' today as a dangerously un-woke attraction.</i>
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  <i>2) About £4,800 ($5,800) each at 2021 prices, although to the poor people of the time the effect would have been proportionately greater.</i>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Easy Rider</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>April 1877. Sherlock is asked to solve another problem for one of his more tolerable siblings, Carl. The captain is having difficulties with a young lieutenant who cannot take orders – but the younger Holmes finds a way to make the young fellow learn. A long, hard way.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>'Tangled'/'Frozen' crossover.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The Good Lord has seen it fit to 'bless' me with far too many siblings, some of whom I see often and others whom I see only when I am unable to avoid them. One of the better ones is Carl who I had assisted once before and who was just about to turn twenty-nine at the time of the events that I am about to describe. He had come to me for assistance in what was for him a most unusual problem.</p><p>“It is not like you to be unable to control the men under you”, I smiled. My brother was (thanks partly to my efforts) now a captain in the Army and a very good one; his men both feared and trusted him which was an excellent combination.</p><p>Carl sighed and sat back in his chair. Physically we were quite dissimilar sharing only our height; he was closer to Watson's build although more muscular, with light blue eyes and blond, almost white hair. I had always thought it strange that physically he resembled Mark yet they were strikingly different characters, although both determined to get what they wanted if <i>via</i> different means. Both were always very well turned out while I was perhaps occasionally less than pristine.</p><p>I said that to Watson later, and he seemed to have a coughing-fit for some reason. The maids really needed to do a better job dusting our rooms. </p><p>“This new lad is something else!” my brother grumbled. “Lieutenant Flynn Rider; part Irish, part Scottish, but most part demon-spawn sent to drive me to distraction! He treats the Army as one huge joke for his amusement but he is so charming that all my superiors think he is wonderful, so anything that he does wrong is my fault! I will never make major as long as he is around!”</p><p>“What do you wish me to do?” I asked.</p><p>“Know any murderers?” he asked hopefully.</p><p>I shook my head at him reprovingly. I did, but I also had plenty of siblings who I disliked intensely. Well, I had them for now.</p><p>“Failing that”, he sighed, rather inconsiderately distracting me from some Very Happy Thoughts, “I need you to come up with a way to make him follow orders. Although if he accidentally gets shot in the process....”</p><p>He really was terrible at times, almost as bad as Watson. It reflected greatly on my supremely modest and generous nature that I put up with either of them. I said that to Watson as well later, which for some reason brought on his coughing-fit again.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Talking of brothers, Logan chose that month to place me in a difficult position the other day when he had had Watson call in to treat one of the Selkirk twins. My friend was as I have often said quite intelligent, and sooner or later he was going to piece together a picture of certain relatives and their activities. Let alone why a Great Eastern Railway porter might have sustained <i>that</i> sort of injury at a supposedly private house!</p><p>To be fair to him (much as I am loath to do) it was I suppose generous of Logan to allow whichever of the twins had not been injured in their 'games' to remain at the house until Watson had arrived. Balin and Balan, who I had rescued from their evil Uncle Mordred, loved each other with an intensity which was almost searing and I knew that they hated being apart from each other for even a moment. They did sometimes work separately at the Debating Societies (ahem!) but mostly did what Mark called 'tag-teaming' for reasons that I, in a rare moment of stupidity, had asked about.</p><p>As I said, I did know several murderers........</p><p>“You have still not plucked up enough courage to bring the good doctor?” Logan teased, as I sat down in his study while Ajax eyed me warily as he moved my brother about on his lap. “He has not only treated Balin and Balan, but Mark had him over to see Tiny the other day.”</p><p>I frowned at that. Not that Watson's philanthropy surprised me – he had a most generous nature – but that he was getting rather too near to some of the less salubrious sides of my family. And that was saying something!</p><p>“He is very much a traditionalist”, I said. “We have not long moved in together and..... I know that I am not always the easiest person to get along with.”</p><p>He seemed to be having some problem with his face, the bastard! I glared at him. <i>Was it possible to disown a brother?</i></p><p>“I hope Ajax decides to run you up and down the stairs”, I said frostily.</p><p>“I hope that too!” he grinned. “You really should tell your friend, Sherlock. You know what London is like; he is bound to find out sooner or later. If he thinks that you have been keeping something from him, it will not look good.”</p><p>He was right, I supposed, but he was already smug enough so did not need to be told that. I could not abide smug people!</p><p>“I was hoping that I might borrow one of your 'boys'”, I said. “I have a case on hand for Carl and I think that that would be the best way of solving it.”</p><p>“I cannot loan you Jack as he is too busy trying to kill me through sex!” he smiled.</p><p>“Give me time!” Ajax muttered, enfolding my brother in two huge arms.</p><p>“What is the problem?” Logan called out from his tomb.</p><p>“He has a new young lieutenant under him”, I said, “a Lieutenant Flynn Rider....”</p><p>“Master?”</p><p>Ajax had immediately relaxed his grip on my brother, whose face had gone dark.</p><p>“Average height, untidy auburn hair, and an attitude wider than the Atlantic Ocean?” Logan asked coldly.</p><p>“Yes”, I said, remembering the small photograph which Carl had left me. “He has been here?”</p><p>“He visited us under an assumed name”, Logan said, still frowning. “He called himself 'Mr. Eugene Fitzherbert' but we always make a point of finding out the identities of our more.... problematic clients.”</p><p>“Problematic?” I asked. </p><p>He nodded.</p><p>“He hired Kristoff – Chris Bond from Stepney, the big Viking – and had him call at his house in the Minories. Chris is new to the business otherwise he would have known to make any client read through and sign our standard sheet beforehand, saying what can and cannot be done. The bastard tied him up – obvious I suppose, given the size difference between them – then left him there. I sent some of the boys round when I found out but he was gone, although I found out soon enough that he was joining the Army. I was just waiting to see if he got shot before I dealt with him.”</p><p>I smiled at that.</p><p>“Then perhaps the Iceman¹ can have his revenge sooner rather than later!” </p><p>Ajax grinned, and returned my brother to his tomb.</p><p>“Oof! Sherlock! Help!”</p><p>“Must be off”, I said with a smile. “You know how hard a life I lead.”</p><p>“Not as hard as Master's is about to be!” Ajax muttered.</p><p>I made a quick exit, but still heard my brother make a noise that even a St. Paul's choir-boy would have found difficult to have managed. I had terrible relatives!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I was still worried about allowing Watson anywhere near the arguably shadier side of my family, but I was to be spared that concern at least for now as I was without him for a while. One of his surgery's richer clients was fiercely Anglo-phobic and had determined that his daughter, now barely a week away from giving birth, should deliver the next generation in his native Scotland rather than England. As Watson was half-Scottish through his mother that was presumably enough for him qualify, so he was asked to go north with the poor woman for the big event. I missed having him around, especially as it had become custom by this time for him to hand me some of his bacon at breakfast on the odd morning or two. And not just because I looked even remotely piteous at the delicious, scrumptious, heavenly rashers on his plate. I certainly never did what Moira once said she had caught me doing and tried quivering my lip. Such a thing would have been totally beneath me.</p><p>Well, only in the most exceptional of circumstances².</p><p>We also had a rather odd event in Montague Street arising out of a political event many thousands of miles away. The British administrators had taken advantage of the political difficulties of the adjoining Boer State, the South African Republic) more commonly known by its nick-name, the Transvaal), and had annexed the place. Ultimately this foolish act would lead to the two Boer Wars which frankly besmirched the good name of the Empire, but it so happened that a Boer fellow called Mr. Pieter van der Tromp lived in our house, and as he had a relative down in southern Africa a 'Times' journalist started pestering him as to his thoughts on the subject. Our landlady timidly asked me if I might be able to do anything, and I was able to get Father to have Words with the right people and persuade the annoyance to back off. One cannot after all help one's ancestry.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Carl came by on Tuesday and I knew before he had even sat down that things were going well.</p><p>“I really wish that I could have photographed Rider's face when he saw that mountain of muscle in a private's uniform!” he chuckled. “There is nothing of the soldier in your man but he definitely looks the part. I did what you said and told the villain that those above me in the food chain were considering the villain for promotion despite the fact that I considered him completely unsuitable – he knows that I cannot stand him – and that I had agreed solely if he could train up Private Bond. The rogue looked like the End Times had come upon him when he saw what he was up against, and the look he got in return – that is the scariest thing I have seen since Mother's last story about....”</p><p>I shot him a warning look. I myself had suffered having to read our mother's recent 'masterpiece' about a spaceship captain trapped in a whole academy of sex-starved cadets.... and I was thinking about that 'Star Tricks', damnation! I glared at my smirking brother.</p><p>“I might tell her about Chris so that she can ask you over for more details”, I grumbled. “Her next horror is surely ready by now.”</p><p>“Sorry”, he said with absolute insincerity. “I am back to the regiment. Army duties, you know.”</p><p>I was rapidly going off him!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Carl was back the following day, looking..... yes, gleeful <i>was</i> the word.</p><p>“That is the first time I have ever seen Rider unpopular with the men”, he smiled. “He told Bond to disassemble a gun and of course he made a complete mess of it. The villain shouted at him and I tell you, for a big guy he can look like a puppy smacked with a rolled-up newspaper. It really is incredible how some men can do that 'woe is me' face'.”</p><p>“That is good”, I said, wondering why he had been looking so hard at me when he had come out with that last sentence. “Because for Mr. Rider things are about to get even worse. I have a few more things I want you to pass onto him to tell Mr. Bond to do, none of which will work out quite as planned.”</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Incredibly, the next day Carl's smile was even wider. But then he had had to call in at the family house and had managed to miss Mother and her dreadful stories, so he had a right to be happy. Worse, I had found that my evil brother Logan had inspired her latest story by telling Mother about Mr. Bond and his ice-business, which had led to 'North By North-West' in which the Iceman had not needed an ice-pick to break up blocks of the stuff! Worst of all, the villain had done this and then 'claimed' that he was too busy to have to suffer the consequences!</p><p>I made a note to slip Ajax some extra 'supplies' as well.</p><p>“Rider told our newest recruit to go on a six-mile run to Uxbridge”, Carl chuckled. “So he did – one way! The villain was actually shaking when he told me about it.”</p><p>“It was his own fault”, I said unsympathetically. “He told Mr. Bond to go six miles somewhere. He did not actually specify three miles there and three miles back. For all his size the fellow does run a lot – for pleasure, inexplicably – so he would have found it easy enough.”</p><p>“Rider was banging his head in frustration when I left”, Carl smiled. “It was great!”</p><p>“I need you to make sure he gives tomorrow's command precisely”, I said, “so that it too can be misinterpreted.”</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>It was the next day. Carl shook his head at me as he sat down.</p><p>“Rider was on the whisky when I left”, he smiled. “Who would have thought such a simple command could go so wrong? Then he had to go out and fetch the fellow in the pitch dark.”</p><p>“It was just bad luck that Mr. Bond thought he said 'stand at Hayes' rather than 'stand at ease'”, I smiled. “At least it was only a few miles from the barracks, and he had the courtesy to send a telegram asking for further instructions. The lieutenant can hardly discipline him for obeying orders.”</p><p>“He tried”, Carl grinned, “and he got one hell of a murderous look in return. The villain actually tried to hide behind me. I wonder how he will cope with what he will face tomorrow?”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I received a telegram that evening from Watson to say that his client's daughter had given birth, a day early but safely North of the Border, and he would be back on Monday. I was relieved; I missed having him around. It was not quite the same putting some of my own bacon rashers on a plate across the table from me then taking them back.</p><p>Carl gave me a knowing look the following morning when I visited him at his barracks and told him of my friend's imminent return. I had no idea why.</p><p>“Rider had Bond over this morning to the officers' barracks I gave him, for a good talking-to”, he said. “He had made him do guard-duty overnight as I told him and told him that he should not let anyone in without their passes.”</p><p>I quirked an eyebrow at him. He chuckled.</p><p>“It was just bad luck that the top brass arrived early this morning for an inspection”, he said. “Bond would not let them in, and only when his fellow soldier went to let me know was it all sorted. They were furious; you know how brass hats are when they are kept waiting.”</p><p>“Doubtless they blamed the lieutenant”, I smiled, “who as is the wont in any organization will try to pass the blame down.”</p><p>“Bond did not look happy when they went in”, Carl said. “Come to that, it was over an hour ago. They cannot be still yapping.”</p><p>“Let us go and see”, I said.</p><p>We left his room and walked down the corridor to where the lieutenant had his temporary quarters. There was silence from behind the closed door so Carl knocked loudly.</p><p>“Come in, sir.”</p><p>My brother frowned.</p><p>“That is Bond's voice”, he said. “I hope that he is all right.”</p><p>We duly entered, and I realized that Mr. Christopher Bond was indeed all right. He was more than all right. He was sitting on the bed stark naked, with a seemingly inert fellow man impaled on.... ouch!  </p><p>The private scrambled to his feet, eliciting a pained moan from his captive. The lieutenant was half the mass of his fellow soldier and very clearly going nowhere any time soon.</p><p>“Lieutenant Rider!” Carl said in mock disapproval. “Really! This is not what we expect from one of Her Majesty's soldiers!”</p><p>“Tell Her Majesty I quit!”, Mr. Rider muttered. “Oh God Chris, please!”</p><p>“I am afraid that I must also resign my commission, sir”, Mr. Bond said politely. “I am taking Mr. Rider back to London with me..... <i>for some hard lessons!”</i></p><p>I was sure that I saw the smaller man shudder there. I very much doubted that he would survive many of those 'hard lessons'.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I am pleased to say that his experience left Mr. Rider a changed and much improved (as well as infinitely sorer!) man. He and Mr. Bond moved in together in London where both became regulars at Logan's Debating Societies. Indeed we would encounter them both on further occasions in my career. </p><p>Logan said that it was a pity that Victorian attitudes (which were nothing like what later generations made them out to be) did not extend to allowing men who loved each other to have something formal and/or legal, and I quite agreed. I had no way of knowing it at the time but that restriction would one day come rather closer to home for me personally.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>
  <i>Notes:</i><br/>
<i>1) Until the advent of refrigerators around the start of the twentieth century, nearly all ice was imported from Scandinavia.</i><br/>
<i>2) Sherlock presumably counted days containing two or more vowels as 'exceptional circumstances'.</i>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
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  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Bernie Brooks, Knocker-Up</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>May 1877. In his time Mr. Sherlock Holmes would make many men and women wish him ill for one reason or another – but why is one of them following him around now? Another victim of the march of technology blames the great detective for his problems, including the end of his marriage!</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Several of the cases that I tackled over the years reflected the ever onwards march of technological progress, as old jobs died away and new ones took their place. It will therefore be understood that the gentlemen and ladies who thus found themselves out of a job were not best pleased at this, but short of the Luddite approach of smashing up the machines that so often replaced them, there was little that they could realistically do to prevent it.</p><p>Except in this case, where an additional wrinkle led one such victim of technology to take things a little <i>too</i> personally. And to several people that I had thought friends proving themselves a little too ready to criticize. After all, what was there to criticize about me?</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>About the only surprising thing about the Russo-Turkish War that started at the end of April was that it had been so long in coming. The Tsar had been working with some success to unite the various Slavic peoples in the Balkans against Constantinople, helped by the latter's poor handling of Christian-led revolts in Lebanon (1860) and Crete (1866-1869). Russia was also determined to reverse its defeat in the Crimean War which naturally drew our own Nation in as that might threaten our Mediterranean trade routes. </p><p>I felt, and Watson agreed with me on this, that while it might be preferable to continue propping up the ailing Ottoman Empire, it was impractical at least in the Balkans as the Slavic nationalities there would achieve independence one way or another and it would be better to have assisted them in so doing that to have been seen as trying to block them. There has been much criticism of our Nation's action (or inaction) around this time, but then sadly our politicians back them were not blessed with that wonderful hindsight that so many modern historians have.</p><p>Although as I have said I had several family members in various governmental positions, they were all of a very different character. Mycroft, my eldest brother, very much ploughed his own furrow; during my long and glittering career he would only rarely call on my assistance, and when he did I knew that things had to be really bad. He claimed to be more intelligent than me but as I once told Watson he had little in the way of human understanding and was far too confident in his own abilities for his own good, as well as being coldly logical to the point where he could seemingly not relate to other people at all. My friend agreed with me on that, nodding most fervently.</p><p>I shall also take this opportunity to mention and introduce my eldest sister Hope. Some ten years my senior this fearsome Amazon (yes, even when compared to our inimitable mother!) had for reasons best known to herself married some political nonentity called Mr. Jacob Rhynes, and they now had a young family. He had a position as a minor minister but with Hope behind him, Mr. Gladstone had better watch out!</p><p>I am mentioning my sister now because this was when Watson met her, the Fates ensuring that she went into Labour on the last day of March and while Watson was covering for her normal doctor. A son, Thomas, was born the following day; an ironic advent as he would grow up to be one of the steadiest fellows I knew. Poor Watson came back shaking from the encounter as my sister.... well, she was loud enough at the best of times, which for obvious reasons this had not been.</p><p>Showing a rare lack of judgement on his part, Father had tried to get Hilton a post in the government only for the idiot to fail spectacularly as it as he failed spectacularly at so much in his wretched life. There was always something vaguely unhinged about Hilton, and I always felt sorry for his wife Rachael who came from a straitened branch of the family and had in effect 'sold' her into a life of disappointment. The previous year they had had a fourth child, another girl whom they named after her mother, which event I was sure had vexed Hilton no end as Carl had five sons. </p><p>It was to either Moira or Mark that I went for certain matters, and recently Mark had assisted me by applying some subtle pressure to the far too large a number of slow payers served by Watson's surgery over in Bloomsbury. That was why today, my friend had almost managed a smile when he saw his bank-statement. He wandered over to the window still holding it, then to my disappointment the smile faded. </p><p>“Is something wrong?” I asked.</p><p>“I am not sure”, he said, frowning. “That fellow across the street; he was there when I left to see to Mrs. Smith earlier. I did not see him when I came back but I recognize his cap; it is a railway one.”</p><p>I knew that that did not necessarily mean anything. Railway caps were always getting lost or being sold on the cheap, so were worn by many men. I went to join him at the window.</p><p>“I do not recognize him”, I said dismissively. </p><p>“I do not like it”, he said suspiciously. “Still, he will be gone soon enough.”</p><p>“How can you know that for sure?” I asked. </p><p>He smirked.</p><p>“It is Mrs. MacAndrew's baking day”, he retorted. “Gregson was round earlier but LeStrade has not called by yet.”</p><p>He really was shockingly cynical for someone in his mid-twenties, I thought reprovingly.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>The smirk was even more annoying half an hour later as he was stood by the window, having just told me that the observer across the road had hurried off.</p><p>“Hullo, LeStrade”, I said, scowling at my possibly soon to be ex-friend. I really found it annoying when people smirked too much.</p><p>“Fancy seeing you today”, Watson said innocently. “You did know that Mrs. MacAndrew is not baking until tomorrow this week?”</p><p>It really was unfair of him to tease our friend like that, just because he had not missed a single one of our landlady's baking days since we had got here last year... all right, maybe he had a point.</p><p>“Watson!” I said reprovingly. “I am sure that our estimable landlady will be sending some cake up shortly.”</p><p>Even I was hard put not to smile at the relief on the burly sergeant's face. He looked like someone who had just remembered that his prize-winning raffle-ticket had not gone in the wash after all!</p><p>“I suppose that you are here about the attack on Lady Mornington the other day”, I said. “Her connections across the upper establishment of the Service will make it exert its best efforts to find the perpetrator.”</p><p>“Too true”, the sergeant said. “In Mayfair of all places! I don't suppose you've any ideas, sir?”</p><p>“Bearing in mind that she was out walking two hours away from her normal time, one is inclined to be suspicious”, I said. “The fact that the item of jewellery that was stolen from her was only recently insured is also more than timely. I have asked around, and she recently took into her employ a new maid with a rather questionable past. You might start by looking at those two, and given that Her Ladyship will likely not be best pleased at your findings you had best make sure to do it at a safe distance.”</p><p>“Mayfair”, our visitor sighed. “No-one's above a bit of crime these days. Some fellows will do anything for money.”</p><p>Watson coughed into his hand. I was sure that I heard a distinct “and cake!” in there. He really was terrible at times!</p><p>“That reminds me”, I said, shooting my friend a disapproving look, “we seem to have acquired someone who is watching this house for some reason. Is there a chance that you or one of your men could pull him in for questioning and find out why?”</p><p>“Sure”, LeStrade said, eyeing with pleasure the arrival of the blesséd cake. There may or may not have been drool.... damnation, Watson was right! </p><p>There was still no need for that smirk, though.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>No there was not!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Unusually it was our landlady herself who showed the sergeant up the following day. She looked suitable perplexed, although it was arguably unfair of Watson to remark (as he most annoyingly did the minute our visitor was gone) that this was because it was not a baking-day. Still worse, my friend’s influence was obviously rubbing off on Mrs. MacAndrew; she promised to sent up a slice of cake anyway and that was most definitely a smirk that I saw as she left. People these days!</p><p>“We pulled in that fellow who was lurking opposite, sir”, LeStrade said, sinking into the fireside chair.  “Name of Bernie Brooks, a knocker-up by trade.”</p><p>
  <i>(Because this profession was even then on the wane I suppose that I had better explain it here. In the days before alarm clocks became cheap and widely available, factories would employ someone to go round to the houses of their employees and bang on a door or window, for which latter they often carried a long pole. There were still some such people in existence when Watson published our final canon earlier this year (1936) but they were few and far between).</i>
</p><p>“Did Mr. Brooks have anything to say as to why he had suddenly taken to staring at our house?” I asked.</p><p>“Afraid he just clammed up as so many do these days”, LeStrade sighed, his eyes widening as the cake arrived.</p><p>“Only one slice left”, Watson said with that terrible <i>faux</i> innocence of his that I did not believe for a minute. “We shall  have to share it.”</p><p>I gave him a sharp look. Now he was just being mean; it was not as if I ever deprived him of..... er.....</p><p>
  <i>If that was a rasher of bacon that he was drawing on his notes just then, we would be having Words later! The fact that he reddened under my gaze suggested that it most likely was. Harrumph!</i>
</p><p>“The sergeant did us a favour with Mr. Brooks”, I said, silently telling my conscience to shut up, “so he deserves it all.”</p><p>That time, the sigh of relief was audible! I would allow Watson that eye-roll, and would remember to pick him up something chocolatey from the bakery later to make up for no cake now.... ye Gods, it was half-gone already!</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I did not like the idea of anyone, even someone as seemingly harmless as this fellow, staring at my house, so the following day I slipped out into Siddons Lane and went round to Mr. Brooks's house in Lambeth (LeStrade had left me his address). It was as I had expected the standard mean terrace and there seemed to be no-one at home, but there was a young fellow digging in the garden next door who I hoped might be helpful. I introduced myself and he turned out to be a Mr. Rice Hedges, a guard who worked on the London &amp; South Western Railway.</p><p>“I'm off for a week because my wife's just given birth, sir”, he said. “Had to work two months non-stop to get it, though.”</p><p>I thought privately that most companies would get a whole lot more out of their workers with just a little better treatment, but this was not the time for such things.</p><p>“I am inquiring into a Mr. Brooks who lives here”, I said. “He seems to have taken to staring at my house for some reason, which is not something that I appreciate.”</p><p>To my surprise the young fellow nodded.</p><p>“Thought he was up to something like that”, he said. “You must be Mr. Sherlock Holmes then. To be fair to him sir, you sort of brought it on yourself.”</p><p>I stared at him in confusion. That seemed quite uncalled for.</p><p><i>“How, exactly?”</i> </p><p>“He worked as a knocker-up for Reece-Mödel's, the factory round the corner that shut last month”, he said. “You were in the paper as being behind that that investigation into them using kids underneath the machines like they shouldn't have, and the story did for them. He blamed you, sir.”</p><p>“That seems quite unfair”, I observed. “It was the company that was actually breaking the law, after all.”</p><p>“When you're at the bottom of the pile you don't have time for niceties, sir”, he said. “What really did it for him was you and the missus, though.”</p><p>I stared at him. This conversation was becoming stranger and stranger!</p><p>“I have never even met Mrs. Brooks”, I said. “At least I do not recall ever having met a Mrs. Brooks.”</p><p>He grinned knowingly.</p><p>“But she saw <i>you</i>, sir”, he said. “Bernie and her went to your street to see you, and she simpered at you with him right next to her! They got into an argument and she stormed off. Next thing he knew, she was filing for divorce on the grounds of his unreasonable behaviour.”</p><p>I must admit that I had no idea why some women seemed to find me attractive. I took little care of my appearance, and I knew that it galled Watson when women looked at me in a certain way, rather than at him. He was after all far more attractive in the conventional sense of the word.</p><p>I thanked Mr. Hedges for his information and tipped him (with something extra for his new familial addition), then left to consider my next move. Mr. Brooks was not doing anything illegal and might give up anyway, but I did not wish for him to continue with his actions. It was just vexing.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>In the end I contacted Logan who had Ajax and Tiny stroll down Montague Street and have a 'talk' with Mr. Brooks in which they explained that they would <i>really</i> appreciate it if he stopped his vigil. They may or may not have also offered several suggestions as to what they might or might not do to him if he persisted. The following day he was absent from his usual post, which relieved me greatly.</p><p>I was less relieved when I explained things to Watson, and he actually expressed sympathy with my stalker as if his actions had in some way been justifiable!</p><p>“Some people in society have so much”, he said, “that we forget just how hard those at the bottom have to struggle to make ends meet. I know that you were not responsible directly for this fellow's sufferings but as his neighbour rightly said, he is not in a position to see that.”</p><p>I hated both that he was so reasonable and dangerously verging on perhaps almost being sort of partly right. So I went round to thank Logan for his help and to talk to him about it. He, I was sure, would see things from my point of view. </p><p>“The doctor was right”, he said, as unhelpful as ever (I did not know why I had suffered a mental aberration that had made me think otherwise). “He is much nearer this fellow than you are ever likely to be.”</p><p>That was just unfair! </p><p>“What do you mean by that?” I demanded. He may have been bigger (a lot bigger) than me and with a huge fellow currently wrapped around him who could likely have buried me without breaking into a sweat (and was giving me the sort of look that suggested he was thinking of so doing), but that did not give him the right to act like an annoying elder brother. Especially given the excessive competition for that role. </p><p>“As I have said before, Watson finds making ends meet a struggle while you do not”, he said simply. “Also, he deals with people like this who have found themselves on the wrong side of technological progress. The sort of people you never come across.”</p><p>That was also annoying, especially as he was perhaps arguably not far from being right on that. Watson's face when he had opened the bank statement before his more recent happier one had been heart-ren.....</p><p>
  <i>It still did not give my brother the right to smirk like that, though!</i>
</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>After some thought I spoke to my father (being very careful to make sure that my mother was not around!) and he arranged for a business friend to take on Mr. Brooks as a night-watchman. Thankfully Mrs. Brooks had second thoughts and decided not to follow through with her divorce threat, and we saw no more of my 'tail'. Although we did see LeStrade the very next baking-day.</p><p>Yes, and Gregson. Which reminded me; Watson's smirk was somehow becoming even more annoying of late.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
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<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Dies Irae</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>July 1877. Death strikes from out of the blue as the Good Lord chooses to answer a prayer rather too literally. Meanwhile Doctor John Watson has a Moment.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mentioned also as the affair of the aluminium crotch.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Of the many cases to which Watson would allude in passing in his writings, this one merited perhaps more attention that it might otherwise have garnered because of the changing English language. The word 'crotch', which around the time of this story was used for both the body part and the support, is now (1936) restricted to the former with the latter usually spelled 'crutch', a difference which aroused interest among some readers (at least it stopped them from asking even stranger questions than some of them managed!). I have retained the original spelling.</p><p>Watson had returned from his brief Scottish trip in a surprisingly bad mood considering that he had overseen the safe delivery of a healthy baby boy, but having so many siblings I soon ascertained why that was. He had called in on his brother Stephen who, to his chagrin, had contrived to grow another half-inch taller than since their last encounter. The only upside of the trip was that the new father was one of my friend's far too few good payers and had settled his accounts with him fully, so at least his financial situation was, however temporarily, improved. And he had his late American uncle's small inheritance as well, so despite the dreadful way that young doctors were treated his own position was, if not comfortable, better than that of many of his colleagues.</p><p>To add to my woes that spring Watson himself fell ill, with a horrible cough that proved unwilling to depart for the best part of a month. Unhappily as he was not a full-time employee of the Bloomsbury Surgery this meant that he was only entitled to a minuscule amount of sickness pay, so his financial situation once again deteriorated while he himself became unhappy at not being able to get out and help people. I was greatly indebted to our friend Peter Greenwood who, despite his own busy schedule, came round and helped him get better. I also owned him for suggesting that a diet of sweeter things might assist matters; Watson was rightly suspicious of this but somehow he forced down the chocolate desserts and pastries that I obtained for him as often as I could. Because that was what friends did for each other.</p><p>Mother too was anxious over my friend's illness, although quite why she kept insisting on saying the word 'friend' like that, I had no idea.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>There were dangers near and far that year, as the ongoing war between the Ottomans and the Russians was going much as expected in favour of the latter, such that at the end of June, Mr. Disraeli dispatched the Mediterranean Fleet to the Dardanelles not far from Constantinople. To cap it all there was also a minor constitutional crisis in France which saw the last efforts of the French royalists to bring back the monarchy¹ firmly crushed. </p><p>The home problem arose over Mr. Wingfield who, as I said, had developed a new racquet-sport which he had called sphairistike. The traditional real (or royal) tennis was played on a closed court where the ball could be played off the sloping roof, but this version was much simpler and could be played in an open so was more practical for everyday people. The regrettable but almost inevitable downside of this development was that Mother, inspired by this new sport (as if she needed any such inspiration!) had come out with not one but two horrors based on it; 'Love, Actually' and a sequel 'New Balls, Please!' How I had turned out so brilliant, well-adjusted and for that matter just sane with that sort of thing around was frankly a miracle of the first order!</p><p>I mention this because I had observed that Watson seemed interested in this peculiar new sport which, thankfully, people were now referring to as lawn tennis. This summer would see the championships for the sport which would be held by the All-England Club in the Surrey town of Wimbledon, not far from London. My friend had also been looking at an advertisement for cheap train tickets on the London &amp; South Western Railway, so I had covertly started looking around for a case somewhere in the vicinity of that town – and sure enough, one fell in on my lap.</p><p>Perhaps 'fell' was a bad word to have used there, as will shortly be shown.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>It always impressed me in this modern age that newspapers like the 'Times' could get their news out so quickly. On the day this all began I read in its august pages that there had been a murder over in Richmond and that, more importantly, the local doctor who had attended was none other than our mutual friend Peter Greenwood. Oddly enough Watson had mentioned the fellow only the other day as he was recently become engaged and he was, I knew, fretting over what to get him as a present especially as the future Mrs. Greenwood was, in his words, 'rolling in it'.</p><p>It could well have been Watson in the newspapers as I knew the reason his friend was mentioned concerned the small branch that the Bloomsbury Surgery ran in Richmond. Watson had had to 'serve his time' there; his choice of phrase and he had said afterwards that it was indeed like some sort of gaol sentence. He had found the people unfriendly and even slower to pay that his London lot, although mysteriously there had been a sudden glut of payments just before his departure.</p><p>Mark. And he really had not needed to tell me about the patient with the strange fetish for hair-pieces! Nor that he had gotten Tiny a wig and.... I really did have terrible relatives!</p><p>I was in fact very slightly wrong as it turned out (I note that fact for its extreme rarity) because Peter Greenwood had just finished his time in Richmond and had only been out there because the surgery had had a rush of patients in the area. The young fellow had returned to the main surgery afterwards and, judging from my friend's late arrival that evening, must have stayed to tell him about it. Which meant that he hoped to gain my assistance in investigating the matter.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Thankfully for his own safety Watson had had the sense to send warning that he would be delayed (understandably, Mrs. MacAndrew did not appreciate people who missed meals then asked for food later unless there was a good reason). Hence my friend arrived home and I waited for him to get his coat off before speaking.</p><p>“So when does Peter want to come round?”</p><p>“Eh?” he asked, clearly confused. </p><p>I had to make an effort not to roll my eyes.</p><p>“Our mutual friend who is going to come round about the murder?” I prompted.</p><p>“I thought Thursday...” he began before it hit him. “Wait a minute! I never told you about that!”</p><p>I chuckled knowingly.</p><p>“How did you know?” he demanded. “Did Peter speak to you?”</p><p>“No, doctor”, I smiled. “You often meet with your friend Tuesday after work, and I read that he was the doctor attending to the Aberdour Murder which the 'Times has most efficiently got out in short order.”</p><p>“Oh”, he said, clearly only slightly mollified at the reasons behind my omniscience. “Your thoughts?”</p><p>“The newspaper definitely sacrificed detail for speed”, I said dryly. “I hope that your doctor friend has better information, or at least can express it in an orderly manner. The article contains so much speculation that it is almost impossible to establish just what <i>did</i> happen. But I am sure that someone from your esteemed profession will be far better organized. If you bring Peter with you after work tomorrow I shall be delighted to help him in any way that I can.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>“I am probably being stupid”, Peter began after we had sat down together the following day, “but something about the whole case just feels <i>wrong</i>. The evidence such as it is all points one way yet I feel as if it is all phoney. Like one of those horrible melodramas where you are being pushed to consider one and only suspect.”</p><p>“For someone in your profession, playing the right hunch is important”, I said. “And intuition is important, especially with so many patients who do not give you all the facts yet still expect an accurate diagnosis.”</p><p>John had had one such patient shortly after his return to work, a belligerent fellow who had come round to Montague Street to yell at his medic for not being a mind-reader. Said patient had had cause to regret that as I had had Moira find out about his fraud at work and then threaten to tell his employer if he did not settle his bill at once. He had settled his bill at once, so apparently he had not been as stupid as he had looked.</p><p>“This happened in the village of Remington, close by Richmond Park”, Peter said. “It is a very well-to-do area, almost completely self-contained and snooty even by Richmond 'standards'. The murdered man was a retired colonel, Robert Aberdour by name, and during my own sentence at our surgery there, almost everyone I met felt it imperative that I should understand just how hated he really was. Hated is not an overstatement; I did not meet a single person with a good word to say about him. You did well to miss him, John; he moved in just after your stint ended.”</p><p>“Why was he so unpopular?” Watson asked. </p><p>“Retired army are as you know welcome in almost any area”, his friend explained, “but Colonel Aberdour rubbed just about everyone up the wrong way. He was already a magistrate – he moved from Putney, I think – and he cracked down hard on all and any transgressions, making even those of his own class afraid of his bad temper. He walked with a stick and would often use it to lash out at those who displeased him. Which by all accounts was practically everybody.”</p><p>“Not the greatest loss, then”, Watson muttered.</p><p>“Indeed”, our friend said. “So to the day of the murder. Colonel Aberdour was coming to see the squire, my last patient of the day, for an appointment at five o' clock. I did not know this until at about five minutes past the hour when the squire observed that the colonel was rarely ever late....”</p><p>“Why were you still treating the patient when he was expecting someone?” I cut in.</p><p>“I was called in just to check some wound dressings but I found that they were well on the way to becoming infected”, he explained. “The squire is one of the far too many people who do not follow their doctor's sage advice; he had obviously been out walking despite my having told him not to. I had to have them boil some water and tear up some sheets to make new ones while I cleansed the wound. The process took more than an hour rather than the short visit that I had expected; one can never be too careful in such cases.”</p><p>“I see”, I said, pushing my fingers together. “Proceed, if you will.”</p><p>“It must have been only a minute or so after five that Constable Reedless was making his way through the churchyard on his rounds and found the colonel's dead body”, he said. “His face had been hideously smashed in on one side and a large hammer lay next to his body. The constable checked to make sure that he was dead then rushed straight back to the police-station to inform his colleague Constable Westwood.”</p><p><i>“Straight</i> back to the station?” I asked, surprised. “How far is that?”</p><p>He thought about that for a moment. </p><p>“Not much more than five minutes' walk, I should say”, he said. “Is that important?”</p><p>“It may be”, I said. “What time did he reach the squire's house, pray?”</p><p>“A shade before a quarter past the hour”, he said. “We are close to the police-station so he did not have far to come. I looked at my watch as he was announced, I remember; I had hoped to be able to call in and check on one patient as she was one of the few round there that I actually liked. The constable had left his colleague to guard the body; a crowd had already begun to assemble, Lord alone knows how! I returned to examine the dead man; the squire wanted to come with me but I warned him that if he dirtied his wound a second time he might even lose his leg – a trifle over the top perhaps; the real reason was that I frankly did not want him making a fuss as he is wont to do. Mercifully he stayed behind and we reached the churchyard in about five minutes. I examined the body and placed the time of death at between four-thirty and five o' clock, earlier rather than later I would have said if pressed.”</p><p>“Hmm”, I said. “It said in the article that the object next to the body was a <i>large</i> hammer. Larger than a standard one, I presume?”</p><p>“Yes, that was another thing that concerned me about the case”, he said. “Constable Westwood went a strange colour when his colleague pointed it out to me and I asked why. He said that he recognized it; it came from the local smithy and was marked with the smith's name. Moreover the smith just happened to be one of the many people who hated the colonel.”</p><p>“Is he one of the three gentlemen mentioned in the article?” I asked.</p><p>“That bloody article!” he growled. “Once those people have been tarred they may never get their good names back. Yes, Hosea Atherley is the village blacksmith. A strapping young fellow which is unfortunate as the force used to strike the fatal blow must have been considerable. But that description also applies to Constable Reedless who is very solidly built. I also know that Aberdour had taken a dislike to Reedless when the constable had tried to defend someone in front of him as a magistrate, and had been trying to get him removed from his post.”</p><p><i>We were not short of suspects for such an unpopular man's death</i>, I thought wryly. And that was not the only matter at hand.</p><p>“There is something that you have not told us, sir”, I said at last.</p><p>Peter reddened. Watson stared at me, clearly wondering just how I had found our visitor out. </p><p>“Constable Reedless brought Atherley into the station while I was there”, Peter said reluctantly. “I noticed that there was a tiny blood spatter on his sleeve. When I mentioned it, he said that he had cut himself shaving that morning.”</p><p><i>Weak</i>, I thought but did not say.</p><p>“Who is the third gentleman?” I inquired instead.</p><p>“Probably the only person who can be cleared right away”, he said. “The Reverend Ian Candy, the vicar at St. Stephen's where the murder took place. He was in the church at the time....”</p><p>“Then surely he is a suspect?” Watson interrupted. </p><p>Our friend smiled at him.</p><p>“The fellow is barely five foot tall and walks with a limp”, he explained. “I doubt that he could blow the skin off a rice-pudding! He could never have wielded the strength necessary for the mortal blow; I would stake my reputation on that. Although he did have motive; the colonel struck out at him to give him that limp only the previous week apparently because he did not like the weekly sermon!”</p><p>“The vicar had been alone, then?” I asked.</p><p>“He had been with the verger Mr. Terence Garton-Brooks, a replacement for the normal fellow who is on holiday”, Peter said. “Probably one of the few people not to have earned the Colonel's enmity although I am sure that it would have come with time. They had been untangling and checking the bell-ropes in the tower – it is an impressively tall one for a village church – and when they finished the verger had left, some time around four o' clock. The vicar stayed up in the tower; he said that he prefers it to his office as he is less likely to get disturbed. And there was testimony from the verger's neighbour that he was working in the garden between a quarter past four and five o' clock. The vicar must also be in the clear, unless he just pointed his finger at the colonel and struck him down with the wrath of God!”</p><p><i>”Dies Irae”</i>, I smiled. “It sounds a most intriguing case; thank you for telling us about it, Peter. I think a day or so spent by the Thames would do us both the world of good, do you not Watson?”</p><p>He looked at me inquiringly, and I reproved myself for once again having assumed too much. But I could see that his wish to be in in another adventure had trumped that, and he nodded.</p><p>“Good”, I said. “We shall leave tomorrow.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Remington lay about ten miles from Baker Street, but unusually for London there was no easy way to get there by public transport so I treated Watson to a cab. We went to the local police station where we were lucky enough to find Constable Obadiah Westwood. LeStrade had provided me with a letter of introduction (which he had just happened to bring round personally on our landlady's last baking-day!), and the constable was quite willing to share what he knew with us.</p><p>“My dear wife read the article to me at breakfast yesterday morning”, he said, pouring out some questionable substance that may or may not have been tea. I eyed the plant in the corner and wondered if pouring my drink into the pot would kill it (probably). “It is accurate as far as it goes, though I was surprised it left out one of the likely suspects.”</p><p>“Who might that be?” I asked, accepting a mug and thanking the Lord for an iron stomach made thus by years of Mother's attempts at what she called cooking and I called attempted murder. And which Hilton had once called the same in public, whereon he had found that hospital food was little better.</p><p>“Mr. Theophilus Berringe”, the constable said. “He is one of those Nonconformist preacher fellows; the colonel had tried to get him removed from the area but to little avail.”</p><p>“That must have vexed him”, Watson observed.</p><p>“It did”, the constable said. “Mr. Berringe is staying at the White Hart, and because the colonel put the landlady Mrs. Benson's husband away for a minor poaching offence she is letting him stay there for free. She even allowed him to preach there though not of course during opening hours. She is a most formidable lady; it was lucky she was away visiting her sister in Croydon on the day of the murder. I did check but the ticket-collector at the railway-station recognized her coming through the barrier at the time the murder must have been being committed. The colonel did not take her actions well but there was nothing he could do about it except shout at everyone, me included.”</p><p>“I must thank you for discussing the case with us in this way”, I said politely. “I hardly like to impinge on your hospitality any further but.... might my friend the doctor be allowed to examine the body of the deceased? Naturally in the presence of your good self of course and we would share any findings with you.”</p><p>“I suppose so”, the constable said. “You timed your visit well, sir, as the mortuary are collecting him tomorrow; I sent details of the death to his great-nephew, the only son of his late niece Mrs. Sharpe. A Lieutenant Noah Oxford of the Lincolnshire Regiment. Will Bledlow – the late colonel's manservant - said his barracks was in a place called Moretonhampstead in Devonshire, so I wired there.”</p><p>“Not a Lieutenant Sharpe?” Watson asked, clearly surprised.</p><p>“Mrs. Sharpe's first husband Mr. Jack Oxford died not long after their son was born”, the constable explained. “She remarried a glove-maker called Sharpe; Bledlow told me that the colonel hated both men as much as he hated nearly all his relatives, which did not surprise me. He also gave me the name of the solicitors as regards the will. I thought I might have problems there – you know what lawyers are like, sir – but luckily the colonel had ordered the will to be placed in the 'Times' so there were none. The estate goes pretty much all to Lieutenant Oxford except for a decent sum to Bledlow; I must admit that that surprised me given the colonel's nature, but there you are.” </p><p>“Was the colonel a rich man?” I asked as we followed the policeman to the back room. </p><p>He reached the door before answering.</p><p>“Just the cottage and a few savings”, he said. “I checked out the lieutenant but there was no way he could have got all the way here and back without someone missing him. He wired me to tell Bledlow to take care of the place in the meantime and that he will continue to be paid his salary until he can find another position. He also said he is sending up a reference for the fellow, which was good of him. Not everyone would have done that.”</p><p>I thought that that was all too true.</p><p>“What about this Bledlow?” Watson asked.</p><p>“He was visiting a friend in Kingston on his half-day off”, the constable said. “I doubt what he got will make up for losing his employment, though; we all know how difficult it can be to get jobs today. And there was no way he could know that the lieutenant would give him a reference. He did not say as much to me but I got the impression that he did the old man a service some time in his career, and that may have been why he got the money he did.”</p><p>He opened the door and we walked in to find the body covered by a white sheet. I noticed how pale our host had gone. </p><p>“Perhaps you could hold the door open for us”, Watson suggested quickly. “To, uh, let some air in.”</p><p>The constable nodded gratefully (I noted that he stood behind the door to hold it open, well out of sight), and my friend lifted the sheet. Colonel Aberdour had been about seventy when he had died and I thought in fairly good health. I let my friend conduct his work in silence; when he had finished he replaced the sheet and we accompanied a visibly grateful constable back to his room.</p><p>“Anything, sir?” he asked hopefully.</p><p>Watson shook his head.</p><p>“Nothing outside of what we knew already”, he said. “Holmes?” </p><p>“This is a very strange case”, I said slowly. “The colonel was a tall man.”</p><p>They both looked at me expectantly.</p><p>“Yes, sir”, the constable said. “What of it?”</p><p>“The angle of the damage to his face suggests that the attacker struck from <i>above</i>”, I said. “Are any of the accused men taller than the victim? It would have to be by at least four inches.”</p><p>The constable shook his head.</p><p>“None of them, sir”, he said. “Mr. Atherley is round about the same height, but definitely not more.”</p><p>I frowned. This case was taking a rather unexpected direction, and I had an uneasy feeling that I both knew and would not like its final destination.</p><p>“May I see the hammer that was found next to the body, constable?”</p><p>“You mean the murder weapon, sir?” he said.</p><p>“Possibly. Or possibly not.”</p><p>“Not, sir?” he asked, clearly confused.</p><p>“That may not have been the murder weapon”, I said. “The expression on the man's face is the problem.”</p><p>“But there was no expression, sir”, the constable pointed out.</p><p>“Exactly.”</p><p>“I do not see....” he began.</p><p>“Constable, the angle of the wound suggests that whatever impacted his skull did so at approximately right-angles to the direction in which he must have been walking”, I said. “There is no way that the colonel could not have seen a man wielding a weapon and approaching him at that angle so that would surely have been reflected in his final visage; shock, anger, fear. Yet from what remains of his face there is no emotion whatsoever. Therefore a single blow is implied, which rules out the hammer.”</p><p>The constable gaped.</p><p>“What sort of weapon are we looking for then, sir?” he asked. </p><p><i>“Dies Irae”,</i> I muttered.</p><p>“What?” he asked.</p><p>“The wrath of God”, I said. “Something that Nonconformist priests like Mr. Berringe are always threatening to call down on the lies of Colonel Aberdour. Constable, about the place where the body as found. What is the church path made of thereabouts?”</p><p>He blinked at the question.</p><p>“Uh, loose stone chippings, sir”, he said.</p><p>“And there is clear visibility all around?”</p><p>“Yes, sir. There are trees, but they are over in another part of the churchyard.”</p><p>I looked meaningfully at him.</p><p>“What I am driving at”, I said gently, “is that you have just precluded the possibility of anyone sneaking up on the victim from behind. Since the blow was struck from the side.....”</p><p>“He knew his killer!” Watson exclaimed.</p><p>I thought for a moment.</p><p>“I have an idea, constable”, I said eventually. “Doctor Watson and I need to see someone in the village. If what I suspect is the case then I fully expect the killer of Colonel Aberdour to be in your cells by this evening. Although I have to say that I think that you will find it very difficult if not impossible to secure a murder conviction against them.”</p><p>The constable's eyes lit up and I could almost see the word 'promotion' flashing in them. We left him and headed off to the village.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>“This is a very strange case”, Watson said as we sat outside the White Hart an hour or so later. “I could almost believe that Colonel Aberdour was indeed struck down by the wrath of God, as it seems impossible any earthly agent could have done it.”</p><p>“Few things are impossible”, I observed. “As I said before, once one has eliminated the impossible then whatever remains, however improbable, <i>must</i> be the truth.”</p><p>“Well, I do not see....” he began, only to be interrupted when a muscular blond young fellow sat down unannounced next to him.</p><p>“Hosea Atherley”, the newcomer said curtly. “Bess tells me you've been asking questions about that villain Aberdour's death?”</p><p>“It would do you well to take a more polite attitude, young sir”, I said reprovingly.</p><p>“And why would you think that, my fine fellow?” Mr. Atherley sneered.</p><p>“Because as long as the murderer is at large, <i>you</i> will remain under the cloud of suspicion”, I said. “For someone in business that could spell disaster.”</p><p>He seemed to back down at that but still looked at me suspiciously.</p><p>“Where did you lose the hammer?” I asked. </p><p>“I had it two days ago when I repaired some pipes for Mr. Berringe”, he said. “The only jobs I've done since were a hut at the railway-station, the pipes at the police-station and some repairs to the tower railings at the church. It could've fallen out at any of those places and I wouldn't have missed it. You think someone might be out to frame me?”</p><p>“Is there anyone in the village who might dislike you enough to do that?” I asked.</p><p>“Only young Reedless!” he chuckled. “I'm seeing his sister Iris and he doesn't approve!”</p><p>Watson chuckled. I nodded understandingly.</p><p>“Hopefully the killer will be known by this evening”, I said. “Indeed we are expecting one of the other people in the case.... ah, here he comes now.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>The Reverend Candy came limping towards us. Mr. Atherley nodded to us and left.</p><p>“Sit down, Reverend”, I said gently. “Thank you for coming.”</p><p>“Your letter said that it was urgent, sir”, the vicar said. “What pray was so important as to make me miss choir-practice?”</p><p>I looked at my friend almost apologetically, and I knew that he had got it from his shocked expression. </p><p>“What did you do with it?” I asked quietly. </p><p>There was no-one sat near us but people were passing a few feet away on their way into the tavern.</p><p>“With what, sir?” the vicar asked, although I noted that he was sweating. </p><p>“With the aluminium crotch.”</p><p>I thought the fellow might fall off his chair at that but Watson caught him as he swayed violently. I reached a comforting hand across the table.</p><p>“It was not murder”, I said quietly. “There was no pre-meditation. It was quite literally a million-to-one chance. You called down the wrath of God on your enemy, and your employer, to your surprise and horror, duly obliged.”</p><p>The man shook, sobbing silently.</p><p>“We should take this somewhere else”, Watson said firmly, gesturing to a metal bench on the green across the road. I nodded and helped the cleric up, the two of us supporting him over to the bench where he sank down. My friend sat next to him while I stood.</p><p>“It was ironic, was it not?” I said gently. “The colonel gave you that injury, and he was killed because of it.”</p><p>“What do you mean?” Watson said. “There was no way someone as small and weak as....”</p><p>“Do not deny your friend”, the reverend said quietly. “He is quite right. I murdered that man.”</p><p>“Killed, not murdered”, I corrected.</p><p>“But how?” Watson asked.</p><p>“While the vicar is enjoying the peace and quiet of the bell-tower”, I said, “he remembers Mr. Hosea Atherley's request to look for his lost hammer. He goes out to check the railings where the smith had been working, a vantage-point from which I would wager the view is magnificent.”</p><p>I could see my friend shuddering at the mere mention of heights, and hurried on.</p><p>“It was pure chance that led the reverend to look down and see the man who had so maliciously hurt him”, I said. “The man whose attitude and approach to life were upsetting so many in his congregation. In a fit of rage he threw at him the only weapon he had to hand, his aluminium crotch. Having seen the church tower and applied some basic trigonometry to calculate the height, I knew that an object that was merely dropped from the roof would, by the time it reached someone standing on the ground, be travelling at a speed of approximately one hundred feet per second, faster still if it was thrown down in anger. The impact on the human frame would have been that of an express train at speed. The colonel never knew what hit him, which explains his lack of expression.”</p><p><i>“Dies Irae”</i>, the vicar muttered.</p><p>“Indeed”, I said. “The wrath of God. For all the suffering that that man caused, your heavenly missile flew straight and true to its destination. When you came down to see what you had done you were of course horrified. Then you heard someone approaching up the path, grabbed the crotch, and hurried back inside the church to hide.”</p><p>“But what about the hammer?” Watson asked. “How did that get there?”</p><p>“I am rather afraid that that was Constable Reedless”, I sighed. “He lied when he claimed to have gone straight to the police-station; he took far too long for so short a journey which in the circumstances he would have been hurrying over. His first port of call would obviously have been the nearby church hoping to find the vicar who, understandably, had locked himself in his study. The constable did however find Mr. Atherley's lost hammer, most likely in the poorly-lit porch. I am afraid that the temptation to implicate someone that he disliked in a major crime proved too strong, and he placed it by the body as a potential murder weapon.”</p><p>“And what of me, sir?” the vicar said quietly. </p><p>I turned to him.</p><p>“We must always remember in any case that it is not just finding the guilty that is important, but also clearing the innocent”, I said gravely. “No man deserves to be tarnished by association with this crime for the rest of their lives, and you would not wish Mr. Berringe, Mr. Atherley or even the wayward Constable Reedless to suffer for your actions. You will accompany us to Constable Westwood and confess. In the circumstances I think that a jury will be inclined towards leniency.”</p><p>We accompanied the vicar to the police station where a stunned Constable Westwood took his confession then locked him in the cell. Then it was back to London for us, leaving the place where a man of the cloth really should have been careful what he had wished for. Because he had gotten it.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>A week later I was sitting at our breakfast-table, quietly observing my friend who was not looking happy. I knew that he had hoped to find the time and money to attend the tennis-championships but an unseasonable outbreak of flu which had kept him working flat out at the surgery, although at least it would (eventually) be beneficial to his bank-account. I had even very generously only accepted two of his rashers that morning, and only then because he had insisted.</p><p>“I see that they have decided to pursue manslaughter with a recommendation for clemency against our clerical friend”, I observed.</p><p>I could see that he was relieved the vicar would not have to face the gallows for his 'crime'. He nodded but said nothing. </p><p>“You had better get ready”, I said.</p><p>He looked up in surprise, then checked the clock. He knew that he still had at least half an hour before he had to leave for work. I smiled at him and slid an envelope across the table, which he opened. Then he gasped in shock.</p><p>“The final was delayed by rain”, I told him, ”but the tickets are still valid. Our friend Peter has arranged cover for you for today, and a cab is coming to take you to Waterloo in ten minutes.”</p><p>“You bought me tickets to the Final!” he exclaimed.</p><p>“A thank-you for accompanying me last week”, I said dismissively. “I know how much you wanted to go.”</p><p>I could see how touched was in my paying for him to spend a day in the sun watching two men build up a sweat either side of a tennis-net, but I also knew that he did not like those things called Feelings, so I was not surprised when he excused himself to his room. I felt pleased however that he was pleased; as Moira so rightly said, what good was money if it did no good?</p><p>I was a good friend to him.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>
  <i>Notes:</i><br/>
<i>1) There was considerable although probably not majority support for the restoration of the monarchy, but unfortunately for French Royalists there were several potential candidates who split the support amongst them. The leading one was Henry, Count of Chambord, the grandson of the late King Charles The Tenth (ruled 1824-1830), but his unwillingness to compromise doomed his cause. He would die six years later and further split his cause between even more claimants as he had had no children.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. Flight Of The Halberds</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>August-September 1877. The ever turbulent Balkan political scene comes to London and Watson meets a man of some importance (in said man's own opinion), and who subsequently earns himself a lifetime job in a nice, warm country.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Mentioned also as the case of the Sultan of Turkey.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Following what Watson called 'our Heavenly case' – he really is getting worse! – in Surrey, we had a fairly quiet summer although there were ominous rumblings coming from the Continent which as things turned out would provide our next investigation. Imperial Russia was, as I have said before, easily beating the fracturing Ottoman Empire in its ongoing war and Mr. Disraeli had dispatched one of our fleets to remind the Tsar that we would not tolerate a Russian occupation or takeover of ancient Constantinople (modern Istanbul). But before that broke out there was another amusing incident which showed my friend for the sap that he so often was.</p><p>It was August, and Watson was scanning the newspaper (certainly not the society-pages, even though he had happened to have glanced at them earlier for over twenty minutes as he had told me that there was nothing of any note today; I had just about managed to keep a straight face), and was onto other news when he found something that intrigued him.</p><p>“This American Astronomer Mr. Asaph Hall”, he said. “He has announced the discovery of two small moons around the planet Mars.”</p><p>“We know that other planets have them”, I said disinterestedly. “That does not sound particularly exciting.”</p><p>“But apparently he is facing some ribaldry at the hands of his fellow astronomers because he has given some of the credit to his wife, Angeline¹, for her encouragement of him”, he said. “I can only suppose that giving a female any credit would be beyond the Pale for many professional men.”</p><p>“More likely jealousy on their part”, I snorted. “They fear the competition that will come when women make as good an astronomer as men. It is good that Mr. Hall is prepared to stand by his lady against such idiocy.”</p><p>“He must love her to endure that sort of thing”, my friend said with a smile.</p><p>I held back my own smile and waited. Sure enough, he realized quickly enough that he was veering dangerously close to those dreaded things called Feelings, and went rather red.</p><p>“Shut up!” he muttered.</p><p>“I did not actually say anything”, I said innocently.</p><p>“Harrumph!”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I may, on the very odd occasion, have remarked to Watson like a brain was like a room to be filled with knowledge, but that each new fact occupied space so it behoved someone of my great talent to make maximum use of that space in order that I might be as efficient as possible. Quite why he always looked round my side of the room (which may or may not have on the odd occasion been perhaps a little less than perfectly tidy) and then nodded so much, I had no idea.</p><p>This was as I said the most efficient way for me to operate as a consulting-detective, the only downside being that I often had to do a burst of research (or at least ask Moira to do it for me in return for a box of those jam cream fingers that she dotes on), but sometimes the knowledge require could be supplied by Watson. And giving that he was generally more <i>au fait</i> with the world and the manifold ways it managed to malfunction on a daily basis, this was one of those times. Besides, he liked it when I played up to his vanity, or so I assumed as I of course had none myself.</p><p>I had managed to assist my friend a little more on a financial level in suggesting that we 'go halves' to buy our friend Peter Greenwood a larger present, as Watson knew that he wanted a rather nice dinner-service that was well outside his price-range. I was able to call in a small favour that I had done for the department-store manager where the thing was being sold (frankly I would not have given it house-room) and he had the thing displayed as being reduced to clear just before we wandered through his shop (I had paid him the reduction beforehand). Watson was delighted to have obtained such a fine present and that made him happy, so I was happy.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>“I may have a case with a Balkan connection”, I said one bright morning just before the official end of summer. The official end; temperatures had dropped steeply the week before and I had decided to by myself some new gloves for the cold season. As they were such good quality I had purchased a pair for Watson as well; I may have told him that they were on sale at half-price for a limited period so they had in effect cost me nothing, but I knew that his current pair were frankly useless and I did not wish for him to attend his customers with frozen hands.</p><p>(I had had the grave misfortune to run into Logan in the shop, <i>sans</i> Ajax for once as the behemoth had a bad cold 'although he has promised to more than make up for lost time', as some brother that I was now having serious doubts over insisted on telling me. Worse, when he guessed why I was buying a second pair of gloves and smirked quite unnecessarily. I hoped silently that Ajax's cold lasted so he had a lot of time to make up for, and resolved to send him some 'supplies' so that he could really 'make up for it'. That would teach my over-informative brother!)</p><p>“Which part of the Balkans?” Watson asked. “Hopefully not the part now at war.”</p><p>“I have had a letter from a Mr. John Halberd”, I said. “He is a Bulgar sailor about thirty years of age. He has asked to meet with me; I do not yet know exactly what he wants but I would say that the man is terribly afraid of something, or maybe someone. I wondered if the political situation was a cause of that fear.”</p><p>He thought for a moment</p><p>“If he is a Bulgar, it might well be”, he said. “There is a huge area down there bordered by Greece to the south-west, Austria-Hungary to the north-west, Russia to the north-east and the Ottoman Empire to the south-east. In ancient times they hated each other so much that they preferred Ottoman to Hapsburg rule, but the rise of Russia and its obvious Mediterranean ambitions, as we saw in the Crimean War, have unsettled things. Serbia broke away first and now Rumania has become independent. The Bulgarians are not that far from great Constantinople itself; they were once powerful and now they want independence as well, but of course everyone picks whichever of the thousands of different sets of borders gives them the most lands. And then there are our own interests and the potential Russian threat to our Mediterranean sea-lanes to the Suez Canal.”</p><p>“Have the Bulgars achieved independence?” I asked. </p><p>He shook his head.</p><p>“One supposes that they saw the war with Russia as their chance”, he said, “but the newspapers report that Constantinople has been able to crush them. Although they are now losing out to the Russians.”</p><p>“My potential client lives in Millwall on the Isle of Dogs²”, I said. “That area's long water-front is as you might expect for such a area dotted with taverns. Many of them cater specifically for certain nationalities whose sailors drift to them knowing that they will meet people from their home country and be able to talk in their own language. His house is in the same road as one of these establishments, the one called 'The Sultan of Turkey'.”</p><p>“I would not have thought Mohammedans would have needed a tavern”, he said dubiously. </p><p>I smiled.</p><p>“As you said, there are the many thousands of Christian subjects still under Ottoman rule”, I said. “For now at least; I doubt that that will endure given the current political situation. Besides, I am sure that when it comes to our potential client Mr. Halberd, something is most definitely afoot.”</p><p>“Twelve inches”, he said.</p><p>I looked at him in confusion.</p><p>“What is afoot?” he sniggered. “Twelve inches!”</p><p>He really was terrible. It spoke volumes for my greatness of mind that I put up with him.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I was expecting Mr. Halberd at four o' clock, but regrettably the creature that was shown up at that time was not him. He was most certainly not the least bit welcome. </p><p>“Mr. Sebastian Moran”, I said, and I could see Watson baulk at the sudden icy chill in my voice. “What foul wind brings <i>you</i> to Montague Street?”</p><p>This villain was a tallish blond fellow of about fifty years of age and very clearly felt that he was descending some way Beneath His Station In Life to visit our humble rooms. He was head of the department that included my  brother Randall – there is a saying about birds of a feather which is apposite to that fact – but this excrescence was if anything even worse. Which was really saying something.</p><p>“Your idiot brother is away dealing with the latest Balkan mess”, Mr. Moran said disdainfully. “We have sent to Mr. John Halberd and informed him that he will not be requiring your services after all.”</p><p>I smiled serenely at him.</p><p>“Mr. Halberd has asked me to aid him in some small matter”, I said. “He did not go into detail. I have not yet started my inquiries.”</p><p>“You will drop this matter”, he said shortly.</p><p>“No.”</p><p>I had seen a similar effect to this when I had used that terrible word to Randall, and his uncomprehending reaction as he had tried to process just what it meant. Watson had been right in his description of the curse of modern society, the man-child who cannot understand why the world is not as he wishes it nor why, rather like the spoilt boy not understanding why he cannot have every single item that he wants in the sweet-shop because he wants it.</p><p>“What the blazes do you mean by that, sir?” Mr. Moran demanded.</p><p>“I rather think that the word 'no' is self-explanatory”, I said, still polite. “Would you like to borrow a dictionary so that you can look it up? There is one on the bookshelf over there.”</p><p>Watson failed to stifle a snigger. Our visitor spluttered again.</p><p>“The likes of you, Mr. Holmes, do not say 'no' to Her Majesty's Government!” </p><p>“Well, if <i>Her Majesty</i> comes to me with a reason then I shall of course bow very low and do her the courtesy of listening”, I said. “Or you could always offer one yourself. But a peremptory demand – that will get you nowhere. Indeed, if such tactics do work at your department then that says something rather ill about the way in which things are run therein. Frankly I blame those at the top.”</p><p>“I do not think that you know who you are dealing with, sir”, he sneered.</p><p>That was definitely a threat. I banged my fist hard on the table, making both him and Watson jump.</p><p>“First, I will be informing my father's good friend Mr. Disraeli about this visit”, I said coldly. “Second, you have a choice, sir. You may leave by the door or I will bodily take hold of you and eject you through the window, the cost of replacing same being considerably outweighed by the benefit of ridding us of your foul presence!”</p><p>He huffed in annoyance, but seeing me rising to his feet he hastily made an exit. A pity as I had always wondered if one could get a full-sized body through that window. Maybe if I could contrive a second visit.....</p><p>“What did he mean by talking about your brother being away?” Watson asked, dragging me away from Sir Isaac Newton and his gravity thing. </p><p>I sighed.</p><p>“I told you that Mycroft, Mark, Randall and sometimes even Guilford work for the government”, I said. “Randall and Mark are, to coin my pest of a brother's favourite phrase, fixers.”</p><p>He stared at me in confusion.</p><p>“What do they fix?” he asked</p><p>“Messes made by politicians”, I said. “Often by doing things that are either borderline legal or even blatantly illegal. Mr. Moran is the head of Randall's department and, depressing as that is, possessed of even less in the way of humanity. Proof that miracles do happen, I have always thought, and usually in a way that one would not wish.”</p><p>“You do not seem pleased at their career choices?” he ventured. </p><p>“I can see that sooner or later I am going to come into conflict with one of them”, I sighed. “Almost certainly Randall; his interest is making things go away by whatever means with justice not even being considered. Mine are justice above all and I do not care if it inconveniences some stuffed shirt in the process. I wonder.....”</p><p>I frowned for a moment then nodded.</p><p>“I think that we need an evening out”, I said with a smile. “The Isle of Dogs is very nice at this time of year.”</p><p>“I shall get my coat”, he smiled back.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I would not say that this part of London was rough but I was more than glad to have recently some more bullets for my gun, which was loaded and in my pocket as we drew up outside 'The Sultan of Turkey'. The innkeeper obviously had a terrible sense of humour for the pub sign was a large turkey with a sultan's hat perched at a jaunty angle on its head. I felt quite entitled to roll my eyes at it.</p><p>Inside it was mercifully not as bad as I had expected, and I spoke to the innkeeper for some little time before returning with two pints of what proved to be fair-quality ale. Watson asked me what I had talked to the fellow about.</p><p>“I told him that we were meeting someone here”, I said, “and asked him to point the man round to our table where 'Mr. Smith' and 'Mr. Jones' would be waiting for him.”</p><p>“Could you not think of any less imaginative names?” he chuckled. “He will probably think that we are gentlemen who want to bump someone off and are here to hire an assassin!”</p><p>I smiled a slow smile.</p><p>“Exactly!” I said. “Would <i>you</i> want to ask any awkward questions of such people?”</p><p>He saw my point.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>We had been there for over half an hour and I was beginning to wonder if my client would actually show when a tall figure lurched around the corner of the divide. He baulked when he saw us and looked set to make a run for it, but I spoke quickly.</p><p>“Greetings, 'Mr. Halberd'”, he said. “Please note that if you desire our continued acquaintance, I suggest that you start by using you real name.”</p><p>The man went pale but placed his drink on the table and sat in the free chair. I had only had a letter from him earlier (not a telegram, I had noted) so this was our first actual meeting, although he had described himself fairly accurately.  He was about thirty years of age, dark-haired and unshaven. He was also shaking slightly. </p><p>There was an awkward silence of at least a minute before he spoke.</p><p>“Aleksander.”</p><p>“That will do for now”, I said amiably. “Let us start with the obvious question. Why did you lie about your name?”</p><p>“I did not lie, sir”, he said. His English was good but there was a definite southern European accent. “I came to your country last year on a visit and applied to live here. I changed my name to Mr. John Halberd but your English law says that that can only be done officially after I become a citizen.”</p><p>“I see”, I said. “That seems fair enough. I take it that your approaching me has some connection with the recent unrest in the Balkans, and as your name is of Bulgarian extraction possibly the uprising in that region?”</p><p>The man nodded.</p><p>“I have – had – a brother, Yulian”, he said, his face darkening as he spoke. “He lived in a village called Batak; it was miles from anywhere so I had thought that he was safe enough. Once I had made enough money I was going to send for him to join me. But I never got the chance.”</p><p>“You will know if you read the papers that the Russians are attacking the Turks just now, so my people saw it as their chance to break free. The trouble was, they rose too soon. The Turks were able to crush them and.... and....”</p><p>He took a long drink. Watson went to the nearby-side-bar to order him another; he looked as if he needed it. He waited until my friend had returned before continuing.</p><p>“Konstantin, a friend of mine, lived not far from Yul. He was the one who brought me the news. Yul's home-town was wiped out and everyone who could not run away – men, women and children – were murdered in cold blood. At least five thousand of the seven who had lived there!”</p><p>I felt as well as saw Watson shudder at that. There was a difference between reading of such atrocities through the printed page and actually hearing about them from someone related to one of the victims.</p><p>“Why has this not been in the newspapers?” my friend asked.</p><p>“Can you not guess?” I said softly. “Mr. Disraeli, although he means well, seeks to keep the Turks as an ally even if that means overlooking the occasional act of genocide. The 'Times' bows to no man but it will have been warned to be one hundred per cent certain of its facts before publishing anything, so it would only print anything if it had cast-iron evidence; governmental lawyers can always delve deep into the public purse to pursue 'enemies of the state'. I am sure that before that could have happened, the government would have leaked several stories about supposed Russian atrocities, all of which were backed up by amazingly graphic and numerous eye-witness testimonies.”</p><p>“That bastard from the government came to my house earlier”, Aleksander growled, “and threatened me to get Kon's address. I would not give it to him but I am scared, sir. I want my brother avenged but I do not want my friend's blood on my head.”</p><p>“It shall not be”, I said firmly. “Do you have your friend's address?”</p><p>The man reached into his pocket and passed over a slip of paper. I read it and smiled.</p><p>“Let me tell you what is about to happen”, he said. “I do not underestimate the abilities of the government and in particular that foul Mr. Moran who is training up my lounge-lizard of a brother into something as unpleasant and unnecessary as his foul self. Sir, you must not visit or try to communicate with your friend in any way, shape or form during the next twenty-four hours.”</p><p>“But sir....”</p><p>“We two have most certainly been followed here tonight”, I said, noting that that made the fellow turn pale again. “Do not worry; I have readied a little surprise for them when we leave. I shall then be able to communicate a message to your friend to meet with myself and a journalist that I can trust at the 'Times', and with luck the whole story will be in the evening papers, if not the morning ones. Poor Mr. Disraeli will not be pleased but, as my dear brother Randall is so fond of telling me, one cannot make an omelette without breaking eggs. I am sure that he will be <i>so</i> grateful to me for reminding him of that particular old saw!”</p><p>Watson sniggered at my obvious insincerity.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>We left the tavern and waited for a narrow break in the traffic before hurrying across the busy road.  Moored at the nearby quayside was a smart little steamboat, her steaming funnel indicating that she was ready to leave. I saw two men hurrying across the road after us, but by the time they were at the quayside we were sailing across the Thames to Rotherhithe and safety.</p><p>The following day I was anticipating the 'Times' more than usual, even though I knew that my friend would be alarmed at one piece of news contained within it. He showed me the huge headline – 'Turkish Massacre Of The Innocents' – but I drew his attention to a small article on the bottom right of the front page. He read it then gasped in horror.</p><p>“Both dead?” he exclaimed. The newspaper reported that two dead bodies had been dragged from the Thames, and had been identified as a Mr. Aleksander Aleksandrov and a Mr. Konstantin Radev, two gentlemen from Bulgaria. </p><p>I shook my head.</p><p>“It is not as it seems”, I said. “I understand all too well how government works, I am afraid. Mr. Moran's is not the only department engaged in 'fixing' things. My journalist friend was most grateful for the story that will greatly advance his career, and in return agreed to print something in his estimable newspaper that may or may not have been the whole truth.”</p><p>“So there were no bodies?” he asked.</p><p>“This is London”, I said grimly. “There will always be bodies in the Thames, as long as it flows to the sea. I have ensured that our Bulgar friends have been provided with new identities and have been dispatched aboard the 'Cynewulf' to the New World, although I am sure that sadly the United States has its own Mr. Morans and that they are just as evil. But I am sure that our two friends will do better there than here, where a vengeful government may try to kill them out of sheer spite.”</p><p>I saw that he was thinking of saying that our Nation's government would never stoop to such a level, but he did not. Quite right too.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>There was one loose end to be tied up from this case, although it took until the following Friday to arrange things. Watson had arrived home after a difficult day and was initially less than pleased to find that we were expecting a late visitor. However I promised him both a fish-and-chips supper (I obviously did not wish to incommode Mrs. MacAndrew) and also had four luxury chocolate éclairs waiting to help take the edge of his hunger. All four of which had met their Maker before our visitor arrived!</p><p>It was the unctuous Mr. Moran. I had had to shut the window to resist temptation; the pavement beneath was busy at this time of an evening.</p><p>“You have gone too far in this, Mr. Holmes”, the villain said, not even sitting down before beginning his tirade. “You have blown some minor diplomatic incident up into a crisis that may bring down Her Majesty's Government!”</p><p>“I hardly think at least five thousand people being murdered in cold blood can be defined as 'some minor diplomatic incident'”, I said dryly. “Even in the somewhat flexible language of modern government. If Her Majesty's Government really does condone such behaviour then perhaps our esteemed monarch should find herself a better administration. One with morals, to start with.”</p><p>“The likes of you and your friend here do not lecture those in power”, Mr. Moran said loftily. “We know what is best for the Nation and we shall not allow the likes of you to stand in our way.”</p><p>“That sounded like a threat, sir”, I said mildly. “Are you sure that Mr. Disraeli will be happy to hear of his public servants behaving like a bunch of tin-pot dictators?”</p><p>“I do not believe you when you claim friendship with our prime minister”, Mr. Moran said. “Besides, if anything were to happen to either you or your friend here – and accidents <i>do</i> happen, Mr. Holmes – then be assured that he would only be told what he needed to know.”</p><p>I smiled, stood up and crossed to my bedroom door which, for once, I had left open. </p><p>“Why do you not tell him that yourself?” I grinned.</p><p>And out of my room to the open-mouthed astonishment of my friend came – Mr. Benjamin Disraeli! Mr. Moran screamed and fairly bolted from the room.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>The late evening edition of the 'Times' that day had a further article of some interest; the dispatch of some minor government functionary who was being sent to administer the more distant reaches of British Guyana in South America. A lifetime appointment. To the remotest part of the state.</p><p>At least he would get a nice tan!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>
  <i>Notes:</i>
  <br/>
  <i>1) The largest crater on the larger moon, Phobos, was later named the Stickney Crater (Mrs. Angeline Hall's maiden name) in her honour. It is five and a half miles across, so over a third of the moon's fourteen-mile diameter.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>2) Not as the local joke goes so-called because it lies near Barking, which town's name most likely means 'the settlement near the beech trees'. The peninsula is opposite the site of the old royal palace at Greenwich, and during that building's existence the sound of the dogs barking at the royal kennels could often be heard across the Thames.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. From The Horse's Mouth</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>November 1877. The dynamic duo travel to Norfolk to meet dying writer Miss Anna Sewell, and John asks his friend for a favour. This was the case which inspired the doctor to start recording his and his friend's adventures for posterity.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I suppose that my siblings could have been grouped into three broad categories; those who I detested, those who I liked but who were still annoying in some way, and those who I just liked.</p><p>It was damnably annoying that that third group contained precisely zero members!</p><p>One of those from the middle category was undeniably Logan, who I did find useful from time to time for the information that he was able to extract from some of his clients (although I could have done without his insistence on telling me just <i>how</i> he extracted said information!). Hence why I had come round today to find him minus his permanent attachment, Ajax being away dealing with a client.</p><p>(Still being young I had once foolishly asked why the two of them still took clients despite being so committed to each other, and he had explained that he and Ajax had an arrangement when they were either 'on the clock' (able to take clients) or 'off the clock' (work it out!). My brother had even admired Watson's figure when we had seen him in the park that one time and had later asked when I was going to bring my friend round to meet him formally. </p><p>
  <i>The twelfth of never was the answer to that one!</i>
</p><p>“It will all end in tears”, he said, far too sententiously for a fellow who sold his body for a living. “Yours, most likely.”</p><p>I ignored his failed attempt at a witticism and moved on to the matter at hand.</p><p>“You have a wider understanding of human nature than most people that I know”, I said. “I paid for Watson to go and see his stupid tennis match, and he looked at me like he could not quite believe it. And when I had chocolate éclairs waiting for him one evening, it was as if his horse had won the Derby!”</p><p>“Of course”, he said blithely.</p><p>I reminded myself that murder was wrong, even with horrible family members who had a bad habit of providing Mother with inspiration for her literary crimes, fleeing fled the scene of their crime and leaving the rest of us to suffer. Mostly wrong. For some reason that I could not quite put my finger on just then.</p><p>“Why 'of course'?” I asked, not at all testily.</p><p>“For one thing, the doctor is a cynic”, he said. “All the boys who have been treated by him say so, even Balin and Balan who are two of the gentlest men ever to walk the earth.”</p><p>That was true, I knew. The Selkirk twins were a kindly pair, and the only ones the otherwise wary Mark trusted when he wanted... no, I was not thinking of That!</p><p>“And for the other”, Logan went on, “you are forgetting the disparity.”</p><p>“What disparity?” I asked, confused.</p><p>“Come on, brother!” he snorted. “You are rich enough to buy your own house outright let alone pay for the rooms that you have, while he struggles to make ends meet and to scrape together his half of the rent as well as all the things that as a doctor he is expected to have and do. He is a proud man and he finds that hard to bear.”</p><p>I suppose that he had a point there, even if he could have expressed it better. Indeed I may or may not have taken Watson out for the odd evening at the opera or theatre on 'free tickets' just because that was what his snootier clients expected of him, and I had said yes to Mother's buying me the top membership of six London clubs solely because I knew that four of them gave free associate membership to a gentleman friend, so he could have their names on his calling-cards and impress people who might otherwise not have accepted his services (yes, some people really were that snobbish!). And I may even have used certain family members to occasionally 'lean on' some of my friend's slower-paying clients. Even so.....</p><p>“Besides”, he went on, “you are hopeless at people.”</p><p>
  <i>”What?”</i>
</p><p>I glared at the villain. That was really too much!</p><p>“I am not saying that you should be giving him gifts like making him sit in front of two men haring around either side of a net for hours on end”, he said. “I know you have your own philanthropic affairs – and that is something else that you are keeping from him for no good reason – but I have never known you do anything for a fellow man directly until you met Watson. Not ever. I might almost think....”</p><p>The bastard looked knowingly at me, and I harrumphed indignantly. As if I would ever..... as if <i>Watson</i> would ever..... honestly!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>The annoying thing, apart from the fact that Logan was one of the few siblings that I actually liked for some increasingly incomprehensible reason, was that the fellow was right (not that I was ever going to tell him that; he was worse than most when it came to being insufferably smug!). Besides, in a time of great differences in wealth it was incumbent on those of us at the upper end of the spectrum to do what we could for those further down, although I was sure that Carl apart my brothers did little or nothing in that area. Of course Mother did, although the sight of her approaching doubtless made many of those less fortunate realize that no matter how bad they had thought their lot in life, things could always get worse! And when she started reading them some of her dreadful stories, they soon realized just how right they had been! Her latest horror, 'The Poseidon Adventure', concerned how that Greek god transformed himself into a well-endowed merman to lure sailors to an exhausted if happy end.... ugh! </p><p>I had actually been thinking about whether or not to tell Watson about my own philanthropic ventures, but had decided against it for a number of reasons. My main venture was funding the Baker Street Orphanage (an oddly-named place as it was actually in the adjoining Crawford Street), but I had felt that if Watson found out about it then he might start to realize just how much richer than him I was. He knew of course that my father was wealthy but assumed, as did most people, that even if the family wealth was one day divided among us all I would get at best a one-thirteenth share (he did not of course know about my inheritance from Uncle Edwy). There was also the fact that, unlike my brother Hilton, I felt that it was better to be philanthropic about a lot of things rather than boasting about it and actually doing next to none.</p><p>I returned to a surprisingly empty Montague Street given that it was a Sunday, and my friend would usually be at his studies. I was puzzled for a moment before I remembered; he had purchased a new book yesterday morning and he liked to read in the Park rather than here, especially as that autumn had been particularly rainy and this was the first dry day for a long time. </p><p>Some time later I was still musing on Logan's words – damn the villain! – when Watson returned. I could see at once that he was upset.</p><p>“What has happened?” I asked.</p><p>“I just found my book a lot to take in”, he said, smiling tiredly. “It is a very good read but it is painful in parts.”</p><p>“What is it about?” I asked.</p><p>“It is called 'Black Beauty' by a Miss Anna Sewell”, he said. “Very unusual; it tells of a horse's life from its own point of view. It reminded me just how cruel Man can be to the animals who serve him.”</p><p>I could see that he was really upset over this. I did sometimes wonder if he found his choice of career difficult; from what little I knew of his profession I had heard that 'getting too involved' was considered a bad thing.</p><p>“Is she famous, this Miss Sewell?” I asked. “I have not heard the name before.”</p><p>He shook his head.</p><p>“This is her first novel”, he said. “Perhaps also her last; the review that I read in the newspaper stated that she is very ill.”</p><p>I thought for a moment. I knew enough about life to be fairly sure that this authoress would not have received a fair payment for her work. Besides, Watson seemed genuinely affected by it.</p><p>Fortunately the Fates chose that moment to throw me a bone.</p><p>“I think that I shall write to her care of her publishers and let her know just how much I enjoyed her work”, he said. “It is a pity that I cannot call in on her and speak to her in person, but that would not be wise.”</p><p>“Does she live in London, then?” I asked.</p><p>“No, a place called Catton just outside Norwich.”</p><p>I stared at him in puzzlement. He had said that as if that was just down the road!</p><p>“You forget that I shall be there next weekend”, he said. “Peter and I are escorting old Mr. Forbes to his home in the city. Poor fellow is pretty much going back to his native East Anglia to die, although at least that is what he wants.”</p><p>I made a quick decision.</p><p>“You should write to this Miss Sewell and ask permission to call”, I said. </p><p>“I can hardly do that”, he objected. “We are only being paid to escort the old gentleman home; we have to return the same day as I cannot afford a night at a hotel.”</p><p>“I shall go with you”, I said. “I enjoy travelling and we can make a long weekend of it. Your surgery would not mind you being a little late in on Monday if we catch the first train back?”</p><p>He looked at me incredulously. He really was not used to good things happening to him; Logan had been right, worse luck. Even worse, I just knew that somewhere in a Debating Society in London, some smug sibling was smirking!</p><p>I really hoped that Ajax came 'off the clock' soon..... and I might even send the glowering menace some 'supplies as well!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>There was a curious incident the following day which drew my attention away from the matter of Miss Sewell for a brief time, as I was alarmed to learn that my sister Moira had sustained an injury. Of course my instinct was not to ask – the one time I had asked Hope how she had broken her hand like that she had told me, as a result of which Jacob and I had been unable to look each other in the eye afterwards for months – but thankfully Moira provided the details and they were not such as would have rendered me disturbed.</p><p>Just angry.</p><p>“Two hundred men killed at this damn Blantyre mine¹ up in Scotland”, she stormed as I went round to see her, “and what does the government do? Try to cover up the damn report, and then send Randall of all people round to ask me not to make a fuss!”</p><p>I handed her over the box of jam cream fingers that I had brought her, and she sighed happily as she opened it.</p><p>“That is better”, she said, taking one out and devouring it in three amazingly rapid bites. “Having to put Randall back in hospital takes an effort, but at least I sent Mother round there to read him her latest story. No idea what it was; unlike him I have the sense not to ask questions like that!”</p><p>“Why did they want the report suppressed?” I asked. “Surely they cannot do that?”</p><p>“Just some key parts of it”, she clarified. “The owners used this safety-lamp which they claimed was better than Mr. Davy's, but the official report said that that had caused the explosion. They were not pleased, and they have friends in government hence the idiot now lying in hospital.”</p><p>“I do hope that you did not hit him too hard”, I said flatly.</p><p>She just looked at me.</p><p>“No you do not!” she said as she set about her next jam cream finger.</p><p>She was right. I did not.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>It was the following weekend and Watson still seemed incredulous that I was coming with him (I would of course be in another carriage as he had his patient to attend to). He had written to Miss Sewell care of the publishing company and I may or may not have asked Father to apply a little pressure in the right places to ensure a speedy response. Sure enough a telegram had arrived on the Wednesday saying that the lady would receive us both despite her condition, which I now knew was almost certainly terminal. I did not share that knowledge with Watson although I knew full well that once they met, he would certainly work it out.</p><p>Norwich is as everyone knows reached from London by the Great Eastern Railway with whom as it happened we would have several future dealings, both good and ill. For now however a smart dark blue locomotive took us from Liverpool Street all the way to Norwich (Thorpe) Station. This was only three years after the terrible train crash just outside the latter, but I knew that that had been human error and that the line was greatly improved now; indeed the tragedy had been that at the time the line had just been doubled and had been awaiting a final inspection before being opened.</p><p>Watson and Peter Greenwood settled their client in and handed him over to his local doctors, then went off to the station together (I had offered to put the affable doctor up at the hotel as well but he had said that he wished to get back to London as he and his fiancée were making their final preparations for their forthcoming wedding). I could have afforded the best hotel the town had to offer but I bore Logan's words in mind and chose something more modest, and I knew from Watson's reaction when he saw it that I had made a wise choice. If his visit to Miss Sewell tomorrow went well then we could take in his cathedral and some of the other sites in the place before returning first thing Monday morning. There were bound to be some old buildings and historical whatnots that he would wish to see.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>“It really is so unfair”, my friend sighed as we approached the Sewell house. “The poor lady has been ill for most of her life, yet now she is approaching sixty she has come out with this masterpiece.”</p><p>I had made some inquiries into the matter and had learned that Miss Sewell had sold the right to her book to a local publisher for forty pounds², nowhere near a fair price even given that authoresses invariably earned less (although after the success of the Brontë sisters, then among Watson's favourite writers, that had begun to change). I had also read Miss Sewell's book and to my surprise had quite enjoyed it. It was not something that I would have purchased for my own reading pleasure but it 'worked' in the way that a good book did. For example I liked the late Mr. Charles Dickens as did Watson but we both felt that some of books 'worked' while others did not. As my friend rather oddly put it, one did not get a coconut every time.</p><p>Miss Sewell was indeed very frail, although she greeted us and graciously agreed to sign the book that Watson had brought with him. I allowed them to talk for a while and said little, but once the conversation flagged I spoke up.</p><p>“My sister Anna is, madam, deeply interested in the welfare of animals”, I said, trying not to think of certain other siblings at that turn of phrase but failing miserably, “and she told me how much she enjoyed your work. She believes that if it were distributed more widely it could help effect improvements in the way in which horses are treated.”</p><p>Miss Sewell smiled weakly.</p><p>“Unfortunately sir, I sold the rights to Jarrold's”, she said. “It is their decision as to how many books are actually published, although they did say that the early sales were promising.”</p><p>The reviews of her book in the London newspapers had been glowing, and I strongly suspected that the publishers were playing down its success in order to avoid any extra payment. And delaying any more copies in the hopes that the writer would pass. That was quite shameful.</p><p>“My sister and I would like to see this book reach many more people”, I said, not failing to notice Watson's surprise at my words. “It may be a little presumptuous of me, but I have spoken to your publishers and asked if they would print a thousand extra copies to be distributed free of charge in the capital once the first run has sold out. Naturally we shall pay them the full price for each book.”</p><p>Her reaction was what I thought it would be; surprise followed by sadness. She was doubtless pleased that her book would reach a wider audience but knew full well that her signing away her rights to her publisher meant that she would not receive an extra penny.”</p><p>“I also looked at the so-called 'deal' that your publisher gave you”, I said, frowning. “That they did not offer you any extra payment if the book did well was, I thought, quite wrong. I have therefore spoken to them and they have agreed to pay you an extra twenty pounds at once, plus a bonus amount for any extra sales that the free books may engender.”</p><p>She immediately looked across at her mother. I smiled.</p><p>“They also agreed that that amount should continue for immediate family if the worst happens”, I said, knowing from Watson's demeanour that the worst was all but certain to happen in this instance. “Your parents and siblings would receive the money in that instance.”</p><p>She beamed, clearly relieved. </p><p>“Thank you so much, sir.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Watson was oddly silent as we left the house and walked back to Norwich.</p><p>“That was very kind of you”, he said at last. “Although I am surprised that the publishing company agreed to those terms. Did you threaten them at all?”</p><p>Damnation, he was getting as good (or as bad) as Logan when it came to reading me!</p><p>“I did something worse”, I admitted.</p><p>He looked surprised.</p><p>“What?” he asked.</p><p>“I sent them one of Mother's scripts to read”, I said. “'Play It Again, Sam'; the one about the organ-player in the cathedral who rewired his instrument so......”</p><p>That was one way to curtail a conversation. I had not known that my friend could run that fast!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Sadly Miss Sewell died five months after we had met her, but she survived long enough to see the even greater success of her great work which did indeed lead to improved working conditions for horses across England. I kept a weather eye on the publishing company and they only had to be reminded once about our deal when I sent them a précis of 'Watership Down', Mother's work about the midshipman, the rabbit-pie, the pomegranate and the giant whale. And the tricycle.</p><p>Look, <i>I</i> had to read the thing! I mean, a tricycle!</p><p>This small adventure was also important in one way which would change both my and Watson's lives, little though we knew it at the time. On our journey back to London he admitted that he had been thinking about writing up our adventure back in Oxford (the 'Gloria Scott') and submitting it to a publisher to see if they might be interested in it. I encouraged him so to do; I could of course have ensured that such a work would have been accepted but I knew enough about society that he would surely have found out sooner or later, and that would have severely damaged our friendship. Which was something that I would never knowingly do.</p><p>Except that one day I would. Very badly indeed.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>
  <i>Notes:</i>
  <br/>
  <i>1) Dixon's, the company who ran the mine, further disgraced themselves by going to court some six months later to get some thirty-four widows whose husbands had been killed evicted from their cottages. Sad to say, they were successful in that. It was the worst disaster in the history of Scottish mining, and lesser disaster hit the same mine in each of the following two years.</i>
  <br/>
  <i>2) About £3,600 ($4,500) at 2021 prices. A pittance for what was later rated the sixth best-selling book in the English language.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. Silent Knight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>December 1877. Thanks to an unhelpful brother, Sherlock realizes that John knows rather more about is family than he had hoped. Logan also asks for help over an attempt to frame an innocent man – but why would anyone target the Silent Knight?</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>TW: Mention of false rape allegation</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“A what?”</p><p>I looked across at my love who had the newspaper open at something other than the society-pages for once. I had checked, but apparently the world was still turning outside.</p><p>“A phonograph”, he said. “This Mr. Edison has demonstrated it, and says that it can play music for people.”</p><p>“So can a brass band”, I retorted. “So what?”</p><p>“A mechanical device that can play tunes over and over again”, he said.</p><p>I frowned.</p><p>“Why would anyone want to hear the same piece of music again and again?” I asked. “I know that we both liked Mr. Brahms's symphony but I think that even you would have started to find it tedious by the eighth or ninth time through.”</p><p>“I suppose that people will have to buy a whole number of different tunes”, he said, “and a device to play them on...... oh hell!”</p><p>He had suddenly gone deathly pale. I worried (I did not exactly panic) and looked anxiously across at him.</p><p>“What is it?” I asked.</p><p>“I just thought”, he said. “What if someone records a person reading one of your mother's stories?”</p><p>I snorted disdainfully at the prospect.</p><p>“No-one would ever be stupid or desperate enough to do that!” I said firmly.</p><p>
  <i>(Watson, being Watson, would later point out that I used exactly that technology in an arguably irregular solution to one of my later cases. That was wrong of him; he was so annoying when he was right like that!).</i>
</p><p>“And she might then send them round to you as a present”, he grinned, “expecting you to listen to them and then report back to her!”</p><p>I gaped at such an awful prospect. This Mr. Edison had to be stopped! At once!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>It was December again which meant that London was full of people planning their Christmas festivities. For me this was always a difficult time of the year as Mother asked (Commanded) that we attend her and endure a family meal. If I was really unlucky she might even have a new story that she wanted to inflict on us (if Watson was right and she did somehow contrive to make a recording of any of them, then I would be looking into relocating somewhere in the vicinity of Timbuctoo!). I rarely went to church but I prayed fervently around that time for some divine favour. Or at least a sudden attack of temporary deafness!</p><p>I also had a rather curious encounter with Mark at the gymnasium that we both used from time to time. I told him about my recent investigations and he looked surprised for some reason.</p><p>“What?” I asked.</p><p>“You paid for your friend to attend a sports final, took him to see a cathedral that had absolutely zero interest to you, helped out someone who he admired, and threw in a free holiday”, he said, feigning what was obviously mock astonishment. “Who are you, and what have you done with my brother Sherlock?”</p><p>I swatted at him. He was getting as bad as Logan, who had openly gloated the other day that he would not be attending the Family Horror as Ajax had arranged to have Balin and Balan round for Christmas! As I have said before, it worried me that these were the siblings that I actually <i>liked</i> for some reason!</p><p>“Watson is my friend”, I said coolly. “He deserves that good things should happen to him from time to time, especially considering all the good that he does in his work as a doctor.”</p><p>He just looked at me but said nothing. Honestly, a gentleman was allowed to have a gentleman friend!</p><p>Fittingly enough friends and family would be a theme for a case that spanned the festive season and ultimately spared me the ordeal this particular year. Unfortunately in doing so it provided me with something almost as bad, as my efforts to keep Watson from the seedier side of my family backfired just as Logan had warned.....</p><p>Damnation! Well, it was all his fault anyway!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>The first sign of trouble came on the Saturday three days before the Lord's Day. We had gone out for a pleasant walk around Russell Square and had returned to find that we had missed someone. Normally I would have examined the card that the caller had left but Watson's present to me that year (which he had very kindly let me have early) was a small coffee-making set to which I now always headed on my return from our walks. I graciously allowed my friend the slight smile at my eagerness to get at my caffeine and set about making us both drinks; luckily he preferred tea which meant more coffee for me.</p><p>“Your brother Logan has called”, he said, reading the card. “He was the tall blond gentleman that we saw in the park that time. A handsome fellow, I thought.”</p><p>I did not think that I reacted but I had forgotten that my friend was both a good observer and, irritatingly at times like these, increasingly skilled in reading my various moods. He looked curiously at me.</p><p>“He is, I suppose, one of my better siblings”, I said not at all grudgingly. “He is a businessman of some sort, if I recall.”</p><p>I prayed fervently that he would not ask me just what sort of business Logan was in, and he did not – but only because a maid came to the door at that moment and informed us that our gentleman caller from earlier was back and wished to know if we might receive him. Sighing at the unfairness of the world, I agreed.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Logan greeted us affably enough and, I noted, sat down rather carefully. I just <i>knew</i> that he was doing that deliberately. The Lord owed me big time for this!</p><p>“You are Holmes's brother”, Watson smiled. “Your card says that you are a businessman?”</p><p>“That I am”, Logan smiled. “Indeed, it is my business that brings me here today.”</p><p>I allowed myself a silent glare heavenwards. I just could not catch a break! </p><p>“Did you manage to buy that molly-house up in Euston?” Watson asked.</p><p>I stared at him in shock. He smiled at me.</p><p>“I have treated some eight of this gentleman's 'boys' by this time, including the glowering Ajax”, he said, “and look forward to treating many more. They all found it quite amusing that you had not told me of your connection to that part of the London scene.”</p><p>I scowled at him. My poor excuse for a brother chuckled.</p><p>“Yes doctor, the Euston deal went through”, he said. “I am sorry to spring this on you, Sherlock, but it is important. Colt is being accused of raping some woman at a party last night, which is of course impossible.”</p><p>“Which one is Colt?” I asked.</p><p>“Colgrevance Hamlin”, Logan said. “A strapping fellow in his late twenties; one of my best boys. He is what they call a mute which is bad but I suppose better than some names that I have heard; he can talk but chooses not to. I think that his family is behind his silence; as my brother knows that can be the case of so many troubles! He is known to our visitors as Samson because of his long hair and huge frame although the boys call him 'Silent Knight'; I might have objected but he likes it for some reason. Indeed it is his silence which is part of the trouble.”</p><p>“As silent as Ajax?” I asked. </p><p>He shook his head.</p><p>“Jack is not silent”, he said, <i>“believe you me!”</i></p><p>I glared at him. He really was terrible!</p><p>“Ajax can speak perfectly”, Watson said, smiling most unfairly at my annoyance “but rarely does. Although I suppose in his business, long conversations are not exactly a requisite.”</p><p>Now he was doing it as well! I glared at them both.</p><p>“What has happened to Colt?” I asked, wishing fervently for both better relatives and better friends.</p><p>“He, Jack and two of the boys were asked to work as wait staff at a gentlemen's party last night”, Logan said. “Lord Greening's place, Rempstone House.”</p><p>“Justin, Lord Greening is an important member of the House of Lords”, I explained to Watson, “whose friends could make life for the government decidedly more interesting if they so chose. A most unpleasant individual, bigoted to the core. I take it, Logan, that your boys knew how the evening would likely progress?”</p><p>“They knew all right”, my brother said shortly. “I did not want to send Colt – he does not do well in social situations – but they wanted four of our very tallest men and he had Jack. I only wish that I could have gone as well but I had an important client to see to.”</p><p>“Anyone important?” Watson smiled.</p><p>“Minor German royalty”, Logan said dismissively. “They certainly do things very differently in Saxony although he paid well, and of course once Jack returned he was eager to make up for lost time, the dog! But back to the party and the disaster that ensued from it. Our boys did what they had to do with those who paid for it and all returned home, seemingly fine. Then this morning we had the police round. Normally they are not a problem since.... well, enough of them use our services to make any investigation difficult, to say the least. But Lord Greening's daughter Juliana is claiming that Colt had raped her. The devil of it is that he cannot defend himself, which I suspect was why he was targeted.”</p><p>I thought for a while.</p><p>“Is he under arrest?” I asked.</p><p>“That is another odd thing”, Logan said. “He is not.”</p><p>I pressed my fingers together. This next part was going to be difficult.</p><p>“Has anyone approached you about the case?” I asked.</p><p>“They have not”, he said, clearly surprised. “Why would they?”</p><p>“Because I suspect that that is what is behind this ramp”, I said. “Rempstone House's local station is Goodge Street, is it not?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>“Then I shall ask Gregson if he can get the men there to bring Colt in for questioning”, I said. </p><p>“Why would you do that?” Watson asked.</p><p>“Because their Inspector Williamson is ambitious”, I said, “and will not want to risk anything that will endanger his next promotion, especially as he knows a vacancy will be arising at chief-inspector level soon. A case that falls apart in front of him – as this one very soon will – would severely damage his chances, while one dealt with successfully would greatly improve them. I shall also need to borrow Colt for an afternoon.”</p><p>Logan was clearly surprised by that.</p><p>“To help clear his name”, I said. “I shall of course pay the usual rate for the other services that he usually provides; I appreciate that like all your 'boys' he needs the money. And I promise to take good care of him.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Coward that I was, I took advantage of Watson having to go into the surgery on Christmas Eve to make my visit to Colt's work-place so that my friend could not come with me. He had taken the 'revelation' well enough but I did not wish to push my luck.</p><p>I had to hold back a smile when I reached my destination. Not only was there not the slightest indication of its true nature but the 'London Gentlemen's Debating Society' notice outside was more than a little humorous especially when it referred to the 'hard thrust of debate', 'going into things deeply', and 'deciding who comes out on top'. Almost directly opposite was the house of a prominent member of the House of Commons who always spoke out most loudly against such goings-on, although there was always the chance that he used that proximity to his advantage. One never knew with politicians!</p><p>Inside it looked a little like a hotel and I met Balan at the reception desk (he was alone for once because Watson had treated his twin for a twisted ankle the other day and had insisted on his taking a whole day off to let it heal, something that Logan being the good stick he was (to anyone who was not a sibling, at least!) had also insisted on. Balan greeted me and smiled when he told me that Colt was as ever in the library. The silent bean-pole's fondness for literature of all sorts was legendary and I thought it a pity that he had not been able to make a career out of it rather than having to sell his body. </p><p>Come to that.....</p><p>I duly found Colt in one of the library nooks, curled up with Jane Austen whom I knew to be one of his favourite authors. He surely had to know 'Pride and Prejudice' off by heart now. He looked up in surprise then smiled at me. I was reminded less of the legendary Samson and more of an overgrown puppy looking hopefully up at his master, hopeful that it would be a nice long walk and not the rolled-up newspaper of disapproval. </p><p>“Hullo, Colt”, I said carefully. “Logan has asked me to help you out. We need to take a trip.”</p><p>He looked uncertain at that and was clearly reluctant to go with me, which I could understand given what had befallen the poor fellow of late. Then he gestured to his open-necked shirt.</p><p>“Not for that!” I said quickly. “We will be taking a few short cab rides, so you can bring the book if you like. I just need you to trust me.”</p><p>He nodded. I felt humbled that someone so huge could place his trust in me and determined even more to secure justice for him. Perhaps even a little more than justice.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I felt that trust even more later when I had to ask Colt to sit in the barber's chair and have his glorious hair shaved off. He should by all rights have looked sad about it but the look of absolute trust and belief that he gave me throughout – I felt that this man deserved so much more out of life than he had had so far. There was more nobility in his character than in many of the so-called great and the good who peremptorily demanded my services at times as if they had some God-given right to them. Some of whom I regrettably had to help if only to avoid their trying to ruin me in revenge, and all of whom got a large bill very soon after. And quite often the attentions of Moira when they were slow in paying.</p><p>Colt looked more like his old self later as we called into the British Library later and I explained to my friend Mr. Breckenridge what I was hoping for. At that moment he had no vacancies but a part-time one would be arising in a couple of months' time and he was prepared to give Colt a trial on my recommendation. The behemoth actually hugged me on the way out of the building, then looked suitably embarrassed, but I smiled re-assuringly at him and took him back to the house. It was Christmas Eve and perhaps what they say about it being better to give than to receive presents is true after all.</p><p>Coffee-makers excepted, of course!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Christmas Day, and I presented Watson with a pack of warm winter vests which I knew that he needed, as well as a voucher for the expensive clothes store that they came from. He gave me a large box containing assorted flavours of my favourite barley-sugars, including two that I had never tried before (banana and honey, both of which I liked and neither of which made it to Boxing Day!). We thus had a happy start to the morning and even better, my having been summoned to the police-station meant that I had had to send my apologies to the family for missing our annual tortu.... dinner.</p><p>“You could always go round later?” some horrible personage offered with a smile. </p><p>I just glared at him. Some friend he was!</p><p>The small room at Goodge Street Police Station was barely large enough for us all, especially with Colt's tall frame taking up so much of it. Across the table from us sat Lord Greening's daughter Juliana, an unappealing female (I shall not demean the term 'lady' by using it on her) of some thirty or so years whose trowelled on make-up had done nothing to improve her looks. Next to her was her lawyer, a man who reminded me that humans and weasels had once had a common ancestor. I and Logan sat on one side of the behemoth and Watson on the other.</p><p>“We are most graciously prepared to consider a <i>fair</i> settlement”, the unfortunately if accurately named Mr. Uriah Weisel sniffed. “We would however require a substantial initial payment, and access to the records of this house of ill-repute to make sure matters are all above board.”</p><p><i>Records of which members of society have used the house's services and might therefore be open to blackmail</i>, I thought wryly. The windows in this room were less transparent.</p><p>“I understand from the case notes that you claim to have proof of my client's assault on this.... female”, I said.</p><p>Miss Greening opened her mouth to complain but her lawyer was quicker.</p><p>“One of the locks of this villain's hair was left behind in the assault”, he said triumphantly. “I would like to see him deny <i>that</i> in a court of law!”</p><p>He produced a small bag from which he extracted a few black curly hairs, and placed them on the table.</p><p>“That is only part of the sample”, he sniffed, “so do not make any effort to destroy it.”</p><p>“I would be foolish indeed to destroy something that <i>exonerates</i> my client”, I smiled. “May I?”</p><p>The lawyer looked at me uncertainly but nodded his assent. I looked at Logan who stood and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a cup of steaming hot water. I placed some of the hairs into the cup and we all watched.</p><p>Nothing happened.</p><p>“What is the meaning of this tomfoolery?” the lawyer demanded. </p><p>I bit back a smirk. Just.</p><p>“Your client really needs to weigh more carefully just whom she is falsely accusing”, I said. “The police take false rape accusations <i>most</i> seriously, and the penalty for such is quite rightly a long, <i>long</i> time in a most unpleasant gaol cell.”</p><p>The harridan began to look decidedly uncomfortable. </p><p>“This.... female assumed that by targeting a man who could not defend himself, she and her family might gain access to the house records which would open up all sorts of blackmailing possibilities....”</p><p>“Sir, I protest!” the lawyer snapped.</p><p>“If I had a face like yours, so would I!” I retorted to his visible shock. “However, although the Biblical Samson was captured after losing his long hair, his modern counterpart has found his own locks to be rather more.... helpful.”</p><p>With that I reached across and lifted Colt's new hair-piece clean off his head!</p><p>“A wig!” the lawyer gasped.</p><p>“Not only a wig”, I said. “A <i>blond</i> wig, all part of his act. He was unable to obtain a suitable black wig so purchased a straight-haired blond one and had it dyed. If the hair that your client claimed to have ripped off during his so-called assault on her had indeed come from my client, then the hot water would have removed the dye. Therefore this woman lied – <i>and for that she must pay the price!”</i></p><p>I had almost missed Inspector Williamson moving into the room and even Watson jumped when he emerged from the darkness.</p><p>“Miss Greening, I arrest you in the name of the law for bearing false witness”, he said heavily. “You do not have to say anything but....”</p><p>She was indeed no lady judging from the obscenity she came out with at that moment. I think from his expression that even Logan might not have heard that sort of thing before!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>I was, I will confess, more than a little relieved that Watson had taken my brother's line of work so well. Colt got his job at the British Library although he kept working at my brother's Debating Societies. Watson was also able to secure him some sessions with one of Harley Street's best doctors and the 'Silent Knight' finally began to talk – which as things turned out was just as well, for we were only a few years away from seeing him in another adventure of ours.</p><p>Logan was pleased with my efforts (although I could have done without him telling me just how he and Ajax had 'celebrated their friend's success all night long'), and Watson who I had admittedly misjudged somewhat became even more the official doctor to the many 'boys'. Indeed the only downside was that my mother, having been apprised of my reasons for my having missed her dinner, said that it had inspired her to write another of her stories, 'A Hard Day's Knight' – and I really should come round to hear it some time.</p><p>I wondered what Outer Mongolia was like in winter.</p><p>“It is London”, Watson said when we talked about the case later. “Our society functions as well as it does because we set high moral standards, but still cater for human weaknesses and desires.”</p><p>“You are taking this very well”, I smiled. “To be fair I must admit that Logan thought that you would. Although he did say that if you tired of being a doctor in the next few years, then there was always a bed in his house with your name on it.”</p><p>I had had the sense to be heading to my room as I said that and was through the door when I heard his shocked splutter. I could almost hear the pout that came with it!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div><p>Sad to say, Lord Greening did try to use his political influence to prevent his daughter from paying the price for her crimes. I made sure that he failed and that the 'Times' found out about his machinations, which finished his political career. He had to quit the capital, and when she was eventually released she joined him on their estate in the far west of Ireland. The capital was better for both their departures.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVII</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. Building Bridges</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>January 1878. John meets another of Sherlock's copious siblings, his sister Kerry who is.... a character. She wishes to know what is amiss about a bridge that she has been asked to demolish, especially given that her client in this matter is someone rather important....</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There was mixed news from the international situation, as the Ottomans continued to fare badly in their war against Russia and their Balkan subjects. Mr. Disraeli was maintaining the British fleet to the Dardanelles as a warning to the Bear that Great Britain meant it when we had said they would not be taking Constantinople. A Continental war looked rather too likely, which was the last thing we needed after all the problems of recent decades.</p><p>I do note that modern historians refer to the time between the Battle of Waterloo in 1815 and the outbreak of the Great War in 1914 as 'a century of peace'. In reality it had been anything but, and during my own lifetime we had seen the Crimean Wars, the unification of first Germany and then Italy, the Franco-German wars which established a new and very militant enemy to our Nation in the middle of the Continent, and now more troubles in the Balkans. It was fortunate that our Nation was then able to effect its policy of what was later called Splendid Isolation, standing off from European matters and only intervening when things needed intervening in. There was much debate over whether Mr. Disraeli had been right to do what he had done with the Fleet, but the general consensus was that we had been wrong not to have stopped German aggression at the start of the decade and that a line had to be drawn somewhere.</p><p>On the other hand, they do say that every cloud has a silver lining. My irritating brother Randall, fresh out of hospital after annoying Moira, decided to sound off at the Guilford Street dinner-table about how only a complete idiot could have backed the small Balkan nations in this conflict – which proved rather ill-judged as one of Mother's friends was married to someone from Montenegro, and she was not best pleased with what her son called that country. Still, at least the fire-irons were close to hand and the hospital made some (more) money out of him.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>I have mentioned before how the Good Lord blessed (if that is not an overextension of that verb) Mother and Father with some twelve children before finally getting it right with me. Some like Moira, Mark and Logan I saw often, some like Randall I saw far too often (except for those heavenly times like now, when he was incapacitated), but most of them lived their own lives and had little to do with me, an arrangement that suited everyone.</p><p>Given the literary horrors that Mother came out with on a regular basis – her latest one was 'House Doctor' about a college dormitory containing some thirty ladies and a resident medic who 'tended to all of them at least three times a week'; Watson had been horrified when I had told him about that – it was perhaps a relief that none of my siblings took up a pen at any time. The only one who I had thought might turn to such criminality was my sister Kerry, but luckily she had alighted on architecture as her career. That was rare indeed for a lady at this time, but then Kerry was never the sort of person to tolerate opposition from what she called 'those men things'. Hence when I received a note asking if she might call on me, I was worried indeed.</p><p>Watson was taking down our few Christmas decorations when I was reading said note, and saw me frown over it.</p><p>“Bad news?” he asked.</p><p>“Very”, I said. “My sister Kerry wishes to call.”</p><p>He looked confused.</p><p>“I have not met her”, he said. “And you have not spoken of her. This is not another Logan thing, is it?”</p><p>I shook my head.</p><p>“Thankfully that pestilential sibling is unique in his business choices, if sadly not in his tendency to overshare certain things”, I said. “No, Kerry is, incredibly, the black sheep of the family.”</p><p>I could see him running over in his mind what he knew thus far about sundry Holmeses. And reaching the conclusion that to be a black sheep among we Holmeses was a high bar indeed. Unfortunately, it was one that this particular sibling had breasted with room to spare.</p><p>“What is different about her?” he asked.</p><p>“Almost everything”, I sighed. “She is short like Guilford, but a firecracker in character and not someone who has any time for convention. I believe that you may have read of her recently in those society-pages that you hardly ever glance at unless you have time and the newspaper just happens to have fallen open at the right page?”</p><p>He pouted at my gentle (but totally accurate) teasing.</p><p>“I do not remember the name”, he said frostily.</p><p>“Mr. John Rothschild?” I prompted.</p><p>He looked confused for a moment, then went red.</p><p>“That was your <i>sister?</i>” he asked incredulously.</p><p>“Was and is”, I sighed. </p><p>“But the 'Times' said that the boy had taken up with a woman ten years his senior!”</p><p>“She met John Rothschild last month and decided that he was it for her”, I sighed. “The fact that he was only fifteen at the time – his birthday was New Year's Day – and also that he is virtually engaged to be married were not, in her opinion, relevant.”</p><p>“I know he is a legitimized member of that noble family”, Watson said, clearly aghast, “but taking on a teenage boy?”</p><p>“It is my sister”, I said. “I am sure that she has already done rather more than just 'take him on'.”</p><p>He winced at that.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Kerry arrived the next day. She was as I said a short lady, only about five foot tall, and I had sometimes thought that she was an odd combination of Mycroft's single-minded calculation and Guilford's physical appearance. I had most definitely offered up some prayers of thanks that she had never felt the urge to become a criminal, or I would have been rushed off my feet. She strode into our room, looked curiously at Watson, then sat down.</p><p>“I am here about my work, not the sex-maniac of a teenager I left groaning in my bed”, she began.</p><p>I sighed. In my description I had neglected to mention that she also possessed Logan's tendency to overshare things..</p><p>“How can we help you, sister?” I asked.</p><p>She looked at Watson again before answering. I had a horrible moment when I wondered if she was considering adding him to her collection and starting a harem. Our mother's writings had a lot to answer for!</p><p>“I have a new project for a big family”, my sister said, perhaps thankfully turning back to me. “One of the biggest. They want a new bridge built over their ornamental lake or at least over a stream running into it. A small thing, but there is something odd about the old wooden bridge that the owner wants replaced.”</p><p>“Which family is it?” Watson asked.</p><p>(My sister told us, and both our eyebrows shot up. That was one of the most prestigious families in England, almost royalty.)</p><p>“I do not like the owner”, my sister said. “Little piggy-eyes too close together, plus he made a move on me when I was going over the plans with him. At least his wife had a few quite nights after that!”</p><p>I might mention at this point that my sister was quite a fighter and had once landed Guilford in hospital when, foolishly even for him, he had decided to play a joke on her. Of course he had not learned his lesson and had later tried something on me, which had led to the incident with the feathers, the strong glue and the photograph. He had not tried anything on either of us since.</p><p>“I do not think that your client would welcome my taking an interest in this case”, I pointed out. Normally Watson (as someone who never read the society-pages) would have known more about the fellow in question but as I said, he was renowned in England, although definitely more for his ancestry than any good character traits.</p><p>She nodded.</p><p>“I thought that too”, she said. “What bothered me was that he wanted the old bridge destroyed; I did offer to recycle or sell off the wood but he said no. That made me thing he had something to hide, so I took several photographs claiming that I needed them for my planning.”</p><p>She handed me over the envelope that she had brought with her.</p><p>“I will need to examine these in detail”, I said. “What is the security like on this estate?”</p><p>“Surprisingly lax given who we are not talking about”, she said. “But then everyone knows the lord of the manor shoots first and asks questions never. If that is all I will be getting back to my horny teenager. He might have recovered by now, so he will be ready for Round Twelve!”</p><p>I sighed. She really was terrible.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>“There is one thing that may be important”, Watson said as I examined the photographs later that day. “The man's wife.”</p><p>“What about her?” I asked.</p><p>“He has as we know just remarried”, he said. “Perhaps the bridge was the idea of his first wife, and either he or her replacement wants it removed. That might also be why your sister was asked to destroy rather than just remove it.”</p><p>I thought that he was probably right.</p><p>“Although she is likely busy destroying poor young Johnnie Rothschild just now!”</p><p>I glared at him. He was as bad as Kerry!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>There was one odd thing about the doomed bridge, in that there were two seemingly nonsensical descriptions, one on each side. They read as follows:<br/><i>'Eoah cuh ruai'</i><br/><i>'nl tom cimeg</i><br/>I tried various substitution codes to see if I could make any sense out of these phrases, but none seemed to work. Fortunately I then showed them to Watson who, once again, saw something that I had not.</p><p>“Which way round were they?” he asked.</p><p>I stared at him in confusion</p><p>“What do you mean?” I asked.</p><p>“Well”, he said, “you said that they were on opposite sides of the bridge.”</p><p>“So?” I said.</p><p>“What if they were to be read by someone crossing the bridge in a particular direction?” he asked.</p><p>I thought about that.</p><p>“Then what Kerry told me needs to be looked at the other way”, I said. “One of the two phrases must run backwards.”</p><p>I quickly did some working out, then winced.</p><p>“What is it?” he asked.</p><p>“I think I know why our nobleman wanted the bridge removed”, I said. “He suspected that his first wife had left a message there which might embarrass him. And he was right!”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Kerry came round the following day.</p><p>“Hope you solved it”, she said. “I have a long list of things I want to do with Johnnie to celebrate if you have, and I have a shop I know which has supplied me with several goodies to help!”</p><p>I shook my head at her. Seriously, there needed to be a place where one could take some siblings back for either an exchange or, better yet, a complete refund!</p><p>“I have a question before I tell you”, I said. “Considering the effect that your relationship with <i>young</i> Mr. Rothschild has caused of late....</p><p>“Young and horny”, she grinned. “Teenage refractory time is wonderful!”</p><p>“Considering that”, I said frostily, “did the owner threaten to cancel his contract with you?”</p><p>“He did, but his new wife loved my ideas” she said. “And as we all know, she rules the roost.”</p><p>“I must now ask you a rather unusual question”, I said. “Have you had any dealings with the gardeners on this estate?”</p><p>“Johnnie is enough for me just now”, she said, “although there was a pair of yummy twins who, thankfully, wore shorts even in winter.”</p><p>I just stared at her. <i>How</i> were we related?</p><p>“I think that you were not the only lady there to admire those gentlemen”, I said. “Thanks to Watson I was able to crack the riddle of the seemingly incomprehensible letters on the old bridge, and if your client does prove difficult, you might mention it to him.”</p><p>“Go on”, she said eagerly.</p><p>“If you take the letters alternately as you cross the bridge they form a Latin phrase, 'ego eam hic cum hortulani'. I doubt that the Romans would have phrased it quite thus but that was the message that the previous lady of the house wanted to leave as her legacy to the estate. It translates loosely as 'I did it here with the gardeners'.”</p><p>My sister whistled appreciatively.</p><p>“Thought they were randy little bastards”, she said. “Well, if I ever break Johnnie I will know where to go next.”</p><p>As I said, <i>how</i> were we related?</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>I only later learned that my sister, whose sense of humour matched her utter lack of decorum, had incorporated her own message on the stones around the arches either side of the new bridge that she built for her estimable client. The new message read 'Uxor numerus unus fecit hic cum hortulani' – 'Wife number one did it here with the gardeners'!</p><p>She was terrible! And worse, some years later the second wife found that message, read it and understood it. The ensuing divorce even reached those society-pages that Watson hardly ever glances at. </p><p>Or so he tells me.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. Cadence And Cream Cake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>February 1878. Another of Sherlock’s brother Logan's 'boys', this time the genial Doctor Joshua Sweet, provides this unusual case in which a research scholar called Mr. Milo Thatch finds out something decidedly unpleasant about a woman in his life. 'Luckily’ a large cream cake is to hand....</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>'Atlantis' crossover.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It had been some months since Watson had revealed he had known all along about my brother and his, ahem, unusual business interests, and in that time if not before my friend had become a sort of unofficial 'house doctor'. The reader should understand that firstly, many of the 'boys' who worked there could never have afforded medical treatment, and secondly, even if they could have done few would have sought it for risk of exposure, especially since many of them worked in professions which would have greatly shocked a society that considered that only truly desperate men would ever undertake such a shocking business as selling their bodies for profit. Knowing that Watson could be trusted was a great boon for men like them.</p><p>
  <i>(My inimitable mother had put it rather well for once when she had remarked that while everyone knew what went on in her fifth son’s many establishments, no-one actually Knew, and they could very happily continue to not Know provided that no-one was so damnably inconsiderate as to go and tell them about it. Our 1930's society frowns on such attitudes as hypocritical  – cough, the recently departed and totally unmissed Duke of Windsor formerly King Edward The Eighth, cough – but it just made things half a century ago work, and work rather well.)</i>
</p><p>Included in the unexpected professional gentlemen represented at Logan's establishments was a genial doctor, a black gentleman of about forty years of age who had come over from one of our African colonies, I think the Gold Coast. Doctor Joshua Sweet was as massively muscular as Ajax and it says something that despite his skin colour he had built up a considerable practice. But then we English accept people who fit in, just as we do not accept those who make too much fuss when none is needed.</p><p>Doctor Sweet had come round to see us as he needed Watson to take a look at a bruise on his thigh that was healing too slowly, in his opinion. For some strange reason I felt vaguely uneasy about a nearly-naked and muscular handsome man standing close to Watson, which was of course ridiculous; he was a doctor and that sort of thing was bound to happen. It was even more annoying because such feelings were totally irrational. After all, I was a strictly rational man.</p><p>“I had a couple of other reasons for my call”, the doctor said as he pulled his clothes back on (just as well; those 'shorts' were far too short even for what he did as a second job, and why was he leaving his shirt open like that in winter?). “First of course to thank you, doctor, for your help with Joe.”</p><p>I looked curiously at Watson, who blushed.</p><p>“Doctor Sweet's eldest son is fourteen, and wishes to become a doctor too”, he said. “I managed to arrange with my colleagues at St. Bart's to take him on as a lecture assistant when he is off school, and full-time when he is done.”</p><p>“My fellow medic is too modest, as always”, Doctor Sweet smiled. “Joe was starting to skip school in order to slip into lectures there, and your friend here made it clear that his finishing his education was contingent on him getting what should be a most useful job.”</p><p>I saw his unspoken point there, namely that for all the English would accept and be grateful for a black doctor who was fully trained, for one to get on the bottom rung of the ladder would have been rather more difficult. Once again I admired Watson for helping out someone like this; he really was a good friend. Even it was to gentlemen who sold their muscular bodies for a living and wore outrageous skimpy clothing!!</p><p>“I am also here about a neighbour of mine”, Doctor Sweet said. “A decent young gentleman called Mr. Miles Thatch; he works in the library doing something or other.”</p><p>“What is his problem, exactly?” I asked.</p><p>“Poor Milo has a crush on a woman who comes in there from time to time”, the doctor said. “Lady Cadence Knebworth, one of those women who is all looks but cruel inside. She is leading him on which is just wrong; he has a girl down our road called Molly who likes and would be good for him, but he is a dreamer and thinks that he has a chance with Her Majesty!”</p><p>I bit back a smile and turned innocently to Watson.</p><p>“Do you happen to know anything of this Lady Cadence?” I asked.</p><p>“She is the youngest of eight children of Lord and Lady Knebworth, who have their estate in the village they are named after out in Hertfordshire”, he said. “A very proud family; Lord Knebworth's father famously tripped over at the coronation because he had his nose held so high! All five of the daughters have musical names and all, sadly, take after their grandfather in their pride. Lady Viola once struck and badly injured a servant who, she claimed, had not cleaned her boots to her satisfaction – her father had to pay the fellow off –  and Lady Melody once stepped on the Prince of Wales's foot while they were dancing....”</p><p>Too late he realized, and blushed horribly. Our visitor chuckled.</p><p>“It is a good thing that 'someone' never reads the society-pages except for those <i>incredibly</i> rare occasions when he just happens to be passing a newspaper which just happens to have fallen open at them”, I teased. </p><p>My friend scowled at me.</p><p>“It is my belief that Lady Cadence enjoys the power she has over poor Milo”, Doctor Sweet said, also smiling. “He would never swing my way – poor Molly will have her hands full with him if she ever does get him up the aisle; I doubt he even knows what sex is except in those beloved books of his – but that cannot happen while that horrible woman is on the scene.”</p><p>“It is very fair-minded of you to take such an interest in a neighbour”, I said. “Yes, we will take this case.”</p><p>I did not fail to catch the slight smile on Watson's face as I said that. I knew that he felt he often contributed very little to my investigations but even the sharpest knife needs a good whetstone. Although I had only ever said that to him the once because he had immediately complained about being compared to a large rock! For all his fine qualities he really was far too literal at times.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Our first move in this case would be to visit Miss Margaret 'Molly' Jones, for whom Doctor Sweet had been able to provide an address. She lived a little way down from Mr. Thatch and, he had said, always took a Saturday morning constitutional in the park where she read for a few hours, since she lived at home with her parents and six siblings so enjoyed the peace and quiet (I could empathize!). </p><p>Sure enough we found our quarry sat on a bench, a pleasant young blonde lady of not more than twenty years. She was clearly wary of us until we explained our connection to Doctor Sweet.</p><p>“Milo's neighbour”, she smiled. “A true gentleman; it is good that he cares for the poor boy.”</p><p>I bit back a smile at her slight condescension to the man that she intended to marry. And would marry, if I had anything to do with it.</p><p>“The doctor mentioned something about a Lady Cadence Knebworth”, I ventured. “Have you met her, perchance?”</p><p>“Not to be introduced to, of course”, the lady said shortly, “because if I had, she might not have lived to regret it! I saw her coming out of the library the other week boasting to her poor companion about how much she enjoyed leading poor Milo on.”</p><p>“You did not tell him about this?” Watson asked.</p><p>“He is one of those scholars who must see written proof before he will believe something”, she sighed. “He is so good and kind; he always thinks the best of people.”</p><p>I smiled as I began to see a way forward in this.</p><p>“He only believes the written word”, I said. “Then it is the written word that we must use to convince him. We shall let Lady Cadence use her own verbiage to destroy herself.”</p><p>She looked at me uncertainly, as did Watson.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>I had a most annoying diversion the following day, and it was fortunate for Watson that he was spared it as he had to most unusually go all the way out to Southend-on-Sea in order to treat one of his patients who had been attending a funeral there and had collapsed (the rogue had wired me that it was likely too much celebrating at the demise of someone that his patient had openly detested, and that he had only gone to the expense of a trip to make sure that the other fellow was safely buried!). I was therefore without him when I had a visit from my brother Randall. Unfortunately one consequence of the recent departure of Mr. Sebastian Moran to a new post in the Amazonian jungle meant that Randall had been promoted (presumably the office-cat had been unavailable), and I would be seeing more of him in future. Into every life a little rain must fall.....</p><p>Randall's unwelcome presence was due to the increasingly fraught situation in the eastern Mediterranean, where the Russian Army was sitting menacingly outside great Constantinople while the Royal Navy was equally menacingly making clear than any moves by the Bear into ancient Byzantium would not be unopposed. My brother (ugh!) was anxious that the 'Times' was about to run a story on the private lives of two fairly prominent government ministers at this very moment, and seemed to think that I would oblige him by endeavouring to stop them. Not only would I not have done on principle, this was Randall whose own moral compass was set permanently to Self. He did not take my refusal well and, annoyed by his behaviour, I suggested that I might be inclined to tell Mother about him and the coal-merchant's daughter. He of course rushed off to get to her first and make his explanations.</p><p>It was <i>such</i>a pity that he left so quickly. I had just been about to add that Moira had warned me the day before about Mother having finished her latest horror – the one about Greek centaurs¹ if I remember – and was waiting for someone to come round and suff..... hear it. As Watson would so so rightly say, oh dear how sad never mind.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>I had yet another distraction the next day; it really was one of those months. I had been supposed to meet Mark for some reason or other but he had had to cancel 'after Tiny and the stairs' as if I had needed <i>that</i> much information. I therefore returned to the house unexpectedly and found Watson working on some sort of preparation that looked rather suspicious.</p><p>“What is that?” I asked.</p><p>He jumped violently, and immediately went rather red.</p><p>“Something that Doctor Sweet asked me to prepare for him”, he said. </p><p>That did not seem particularly strange, yet his reaction suggested that there was rather more to things than he had said. I waited for him to fold.</p><p>He duly folded.</p><p>“Do you remember how my fellow medic did not wear a tie?” he asked.</p><p>Where <i>was</i> he going with this? I stared at him in confusion.</p><p>“Yes?” I said.</p><p>“He tells all his patients who ask that collars give him a rash”, I said, “which is why he had to have his shirt open.”</p><p>“And?” I asked, still confused.</p><p>He blushed again but answered.</p><p>“He puts this on from time to time so his patients would think it true”, he said. “In fact having an open shirt means he gets more than his share of female patients, some of whom seem to be ill quite often.”</p><p>I sighed. That was just......</p><p>Admirably sneaky.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>A few days later, Watson and I met Miss Jones in Mr. Thatch's library, where she pointed out the object of her affections. I know that they say love is blind, but.... <i>really?</i> This fellow looked like he was but a meal away from starvation, and his generally unkempt appearance was not helped by ridiculously large round spectacles and hair that had presumably not seen a brush any time this decade. As I said to Watson, how could anyone reasonably be attracted to someone who paid so little attention to his appearance and looked as much a piece of human flotsam as that?</p><p>He seemed have acquired a cough from somewhere. That was odd; I had not noticed it on our way here.</p><p>I knew from my watchers that Lady Cadence was due here about fifteen minutes from now, so I nodded to Miss Jones who approached her intended with a magazine that I had given her. Gazing up at her he somehow contrived to look even dopier, but when she mentioned that there was an article in it about Lady Cadence he was clearly more attentive (although not enough to catch his future wife's scowl) and was soon reading avidly. As well he might.</p><p>“You did not say what was so fascinating about the article”, Miss Jones said as she rejoined us.</p><p>“Watch!” I urged.</p><p>Sure enough, Mr. Thatch's face darkened as he read on, and on several occasions he shuddered. I had hired a journalist friend of mine who had approached Lady Cadence ostensibly on behalf of a French fashion magazine, asking for her thoughts on London society and the men in it. Clearly thinking that nothing she said would reach London, she had made several decidedly <i>risqué</i> remarks about quite a few prominent members of society – I rather doubted that the noble Lord Becontree would be overly thrilled about her remark that 'his wide lands in no way made up for his even wider posterior', or Mr. Vane-Williams who 'has more than one tiny endowment' – and in particular, she had relished how she was currently stringing along some scruffy young librarian who actually thought that he stood a chance with <i>her!</i> The very idea!</p><p>By the time Mr. Thatch had finished the article his face was dark with anger – and for once in her life showing good timing, Lady Cadence chose that very moment to walk into the library. I nudged Miss Jones who quickly hurried over to Mr. Thatch's table with the cream cake that I had purchased earlier.</p><p>Yes, I <i>was</i> that bad. And when Lady Cadence came up to Mr. Thatch still smirking, only for him to grab the cake and throw it in her face, I did not feel the least bit sorry. If that horrible woman thought that this was bad, wait until later in the day when every gentleman and lady that she had mentioned in her article would be receiving a free copy of the magazine and would get to read her words about them!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Lady Cadence felt it politic to withdraw from London society for a while and her family sent her to their French property for what turned out to be an indefinite stay. Mr. Thatch married his Miss Jones and apparently she did manage to explain a few things to him – <i>because they had some fourteen children!</i> With only a little prompting from me, he later secured an excellent position at the British Museum just across the road from our lodgings in Montague Street – but by that time we had moved on.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>
  <i>Notes:</i><br/>
<i>1) 'Horseplay'.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. The Ricoletti Murder</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>March 1878. Wherein an unhappily married couple's differences prove fatal and John gets to meet Sherlock's brother Randall for the first time. Unfortunately, not the last.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>I mentioned in my last set of notes that while I was solving the problem of Lady Cadence Knebworth, I had suffered a rare (but not rare enough) visitation from my unpleasant brother Randall. That had been as a result of the increasingly fraught political situation in the eastern Mediterranean which had not been helped when the Greeks had piled into things the previous month, and I had hoped to avoid any further contact with the pest. Unfortunately it was not to be, and worse as far as Watson was concerned, he got to meet one of the siblings who I least liked. For events appurtenant to what was happing a thousand miles away were about to find an echo in a London street not far from our own, and result in a number of deaths.</p><p>In the messy and frankly disorganized way that war is conducted these days, the Russians had extracted the Treaty of San Stefano from the Ottomans, so-called because that was the village west of and rather too near Constantinople where they had (for now) halted their troops. The treaty gave them everything they could have wanted, specifically a satellite Bulgarian super-state which dominated both sides of the Dardanelles and also boxed in the ever-advancing Greeks. (The Russians would later claim that this was merely 'an opening gambit in pan-European talks' frankly I have heard better excuses from my brother Guilford!). The public fury when the news had reached London last night had been regrettably noisy, and had clearly kept my friend awake.</p><p>I was dwelling on how to ask Watson if he could accompany me on this delicate matter when he came to the breakfast-table that morning. I was clearly not paying attention as I only belatedly realized his shocked expression.</p><p>“What?” I asked, bemused.</p><p><i>”You</i> are pouring <i>me</i> a coffee?” he exclaimed. “Ye Gods, what is wrong?”</p><p>I scowled at his totally unfai..... perhaps arguably accurate observation. </p><p>“My brother Randall will be coming round today”, I said. “He will have a case for me. An important one.”</p><p>For the reader's information, I should explain that I was still not minded to help my pestilential brother out unless on my own terms, but I happened to know the constable who had been mentioned in the newspaper article that I had just read and LeStrade had spoken most highly of him. Given that my friend gave out praise not that much more often than Randall gave out consideration for others (i.e. never), I had felt it incumbent to get involved. I really was too soft-hearted for my own good at times.</p><p>“He has sent you details already?” Watson asked.</p><p>“No, but the headline in the 'Times' suggests that he will demand my assistance”, I said. “Demand, not ask; we are talking Randall here who you have thus far been most fortunate not to have met. Would you like to read it or would you prefer me to summarize it for you?”</p><p>He smiled at my consideration. He had had a late call the evening before and had arrived back only just before I was set to retire. He also had a full day ahead of him, likely with patients who were sure they had contracted the Black Death rather than a common cold. I made a mental note to buy him another bar of chocolate that day, especially as he would be shortly handing me over all his bacon rashers.</p><p>“A summary please”, he said.</p><p>“Yesterday afternoon Constable Nelson Wood from LeStrade's station was patrolling Rhododendron Lane which lies a little way east of Baker Street, when he heard a loud scream from Number Forty-Seven. He immediately went and knocked at the door and when no-one answered he forced his way in. In the main room he found the dead body of the house-owner Miss Frances Hanover, a lady who had only just moved into the area. She had been stabbed in the neck and there was a blood-stained knife lying nearby which was subsequently identified as belonging to Miss Hanover's neighbour, Mr. Nicola Ricoletti. It later emerged that he had been paying court to her recently, and he has since been arrested.”</p><p>“Does the article say anything about him?” he asked.</p><p>“It says that Mr. Ricoletti, thirty-one, only moved to the area himself last year from a small town in the Umbria region of Italy”, I said. “He has a club foot so does not get about much, and lives with his former wife Gina.”</p><p>He looked up in surprise. </p><p>“Surely he is a Catholic if he is from Italy?” he said. “How did he obtain a divorce? Come to that, why does he still live with the woman?”</p><p>“The paper reported that he is actually of a minor sect which, while it recognizes Papal authority in most respects, does allow divorce”, I explained. “Apparently the couple have to remain together for a year and a day before final sanction is granted, one presumes that the recent problems in the peninsula must have prompted a swift removal to the safety of an English street.”</p><p>The newly-independent Italian state was not functioning at all well in its early years, as polarization between left and right often led to political gridlock. That coupled with levels of corruption not seen even across Europe rendered it a relatively weak power, but still one which could tip the scales in a conflict. In particular the island of Sicily was a threat to British links across the Mediterranean to the Suez Canal and its eastern Imperial holdings, although at least we held the island of Malta further south so that threat could be countered. All this had caused Randall even more concern, which goes to prove that saying about every cloud having a silver lining.</p><p>“Not that safe”, he muttered, “considering that their neighbour is now dead and he is the chief suspect!”</p><p>I smiled at his astute observation.</p><p>“It all sounds very straightforward”, he said. </p><p>“It might be”, I agreed, “had the late Miss Hanover not been one of the principal Austro-Hungarian spies in this country!”</p><p>He spluttered a mouthful of his drink somewhat inelegantly across the table. I tutted at him; what a waste of good coffee!</p><p>“Had you not better be getting ready for your day's work?” I asked teasingly.</p><p>“You cannot seriously let me go to work with just that!” he protested. </p><p>I smiled.</p><p>“My pestilential brother will not be round until five o' clock”, I said (I was sure that Randall would come much earlier but I planned to be out until then). “I promise that I shall not start the case without my trusty sidekick!”</p><p>He blushed a little. He really did not think much of his abilities, yet I increasingly felt as if something was missing when I had to undertake an investigation without him. But I did not dwell on just how that situation had come about.</p><p>Because.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>I spent the day doing some research in the British Museum, which had the added bonus that my study area overlooked the street and the entrance to Mrs. MacAndrew's house so I got to see an increasingly frustrated Randall arrive and leave on three occasions. As well as Watson's chocolate I had also picked up some flowers for our landlady; she deserved them after having to have that in her house.</p><p>It was well that I did, for I found our normally stoic landlady looking oddly tearful. This was so not like her, so I asked why.</p><p>“It's this news, sir”, she said, sniffing dolefully. “The Eurydice.”</p><p>I suppose that I should have corrected her that it was '-dissy' rather than '-dice' but now was clearly not the time for such word-play. I had read the news myself earlier; an old sailing-ship used for training purposes had run aground near the Isle of Wight and all but two of her nearly four hundred crew had perished. I supposed that there would be an inquiry into it part of which would be a whitewash to exculpate any official mismanagement, but how did such a tragedy pull in our estimable landlady?</p><p>“My nephew Billy was on board, sir”, she said between sniffs. “He was one of only two boys my sister Nell had; I don't know how she will make ends meet with his money gone.”</p><p>“There will of course be a Fund for the lost sailors”, I said thoughtfully, “but your sister likely needs money now. If you give me her address, I will do what I can for her.”</p><p>She looked at me incredulously. I was if truth be told a little offended; I had thought to have had a decent reputation for championing what Watson called 'the little people' and she surely should have felt able to have approached me.</p><p>“You would, sir?” she asked.</p><p>I could almost hear the 'but why?'.</p><p>“You are our landlady”, I reminded her, “and as such someone we rely on. Of course I would be glad to help. I can make sure that she gets enough money to tide her over. What does her husband do, pray?”</p><p>“He's a sailor too, sir”, she said. “On one of those new metal ships. I don't like them but he says they're safe enough.”</p><p>“We will sort something out for now, I promise”, I said. “You should write to your sister to re-assure her. I am expecting my brother here later as he has I know been here several times already, but either before or after that I will write to her.”</p><p>She thanked me again and I left her.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>I returned to our rooms, where I was soon after joined by Watson (I had made a few arrangements to ensure that he was not kept late, as happened rather too often in my opinion). He appreciated the bar of chocolate and pouted most adorably when he realized that he would have to wait until after dinner before having it. Although I did not give it any odds on surviving until the following morning!</p><p>Thankfully I was able to complete and send off my promised letter to Mrs. MacAndrew's sister, and just in time as at a quarter to five Randall was shown up by Alice, my brother looking rather red-faced. I smiled; our landlady had correctly judged his character and had made sure that he was shown up by the maid who had two brothers in boxing and knew how to defend herself. </p><p>“Randall”, I said with what was very obviously a false smile. “What can we do for you?”</p><p>I always thought that this strong contender for the Worst Sibling Of The Century Award did himself no favours by his appearance, which was every inch the lounge-lizard that he indeed was. He was a shade taller than me with blond hair and a thing on his chin that was presumably meant to have been a stylized beard, but he most definitely had the sort of face that made any right-thinking Englishman want to punch him. Quite why so many women fell for his charms reflected very badly on half of our species.</p><p>It also did not help that he immediately took Watson's chair.</p><p><i>“That</i> is Watson's place”, I said before he could open his mouth to annoy me yet more. <i>“You</i> will either stand, or take the fireside chair.”</p><p>The excrescence scowled mightily and looked as if he might stay put for a moment, but eventually sighed, got up and made his way to the fireside chair into which he all but fell. Watson took my place by the table and watched us both; even the worst observer in the world would have quickly realized that there was nothing between us but an insufficient distance, several thousand miles insufficient in my opinion.</p><p>“You have not been around much, Sher.”</p><p>“Do not call me that!” I snapped. “I presume that you are here over the Rhododendron Lane Affair?”</p><p>The pest sighed.</p><p>“And to see my little brother”, he said with a frankly feeble smile. </p><p>I had seen more sincerity in a Turkish rug-salesman. He reached across, presumably in an attempt to make contact with me, but I shot him such a look that he pulled his hand back as if burned. There was a pained silence.</p><p>“All right”, he scowled. “Dizzy is <i>not</i> pleased over this farrago. Another international incident is all we need right now.”</p><p>I could see that Watson was shocked to realize that the nuisance was actually referring to our esteemed prime minister. </p><p>“Despite his playboy exterior”, I said heavily, “my brother 'functions' – if that is the right word – as a valued government operative.”</p><p>Said brother stood and bowed deeply to us both.</p><p>“Proof, if needed, that appearances can indeed be deceptive!” I added.</p><p>“Sher!” his brother snapped. </p><p>That was the second time he had used the short form of my name which was reserved only for people I actually liked, a category that would never extend to include him. I glared murderously at him and had the pleasure of seeing him shudder.</p><p>“Sherlock”, the pain muttered.</p><p>“Better!” I said. “Tell us about the murder of Miss Hanover.”</p><p>As if to prove that he could dig himself into an even deeper hole, he looked questioningly at Watson.</p><p>“Can <i>he</i> be trusted?” he asked dubiously.</p><p>“More than certain family members I might name”, he said acidly. “Especially those who wait until Mother is out and then consort with certain Guilford Street under-housemaids called Mary!”</p><p>He scowled mightily at me. Watson arguably did not exactly help matters by muttering very loudly 'Mother out, under-housemaid, Mary” as he was writing. I probably should have reproved him for that but for some reason I decided not to.</p><p>Because.</p><p>“All right”, my brother said, sprawling back into his chair. “As I am sure you know, Frances Hanover was one of the most accomplished Austro-Hungarian spies in this country.”</p><p>“Then why did you not arrest her?” Watson wondered.</p><p>My unwelcome visitor made the mistake of turning to glare pityingly at my friend. This as actually good because I was able to make use of an otherwise only tolerable shortbread biscuit, which impacted on his over-gelled hair before bouncing off into the fire. </p><p>“Sher!” </p><p>“Mention that name again and the next thing to hit you will be a bullet!”</p><p>He actually pushed his chair back slightly in an effort to get away from me. A belatedly wise move on his part.</p><p>“You cannot expect Watson to understand the intricacies of government any more than <i>you</i> could be expected to understand the intricacies of medicine!” I snapped, before turning back to my friend. “What my uninformative brother means is that knowing Miss Hanover was a spy, the British government was thus able to make sure that the information she supplied to her masters in Vienna was exactly what our Nation wanted them to believe, whether true or not. As such she was of far more use to us than if she were in gaol, and replaced by another agent.”</p><p>“Oh”, he said. “I see now.”</p><p>“The newspaper article is for once accurate”, our unwelcome visitor observed, scowling at Watson as if his foul attitude were somehow my friend's fault. “However certain facts have been omitted.”</p><p>“Which were?” I prompted.</p><p>“We are unclear as to just how deep the relationship between Mr. Ricoletti and Miss Hanover had become”, he said, clearly still annoyed at Watson's presence. “His wife – soon to be ex-wife – disapproved of it but suspected that it had gone further than he had admitted. She in turn is one of the problems of this case.”</p><p>“In what way?” I asked.</p><p>“She is dating a fellow called Mr. Gianluca diMoro”, he said. “He is an attaché at the Italian Embassy, a right young buck if ever there was one, which brings in our spaghetti-eating friends. And that is something we do <i>not</i> need at the moment.”</p><p>“Why?” Watson asked curiously. </p><p>I turned to him.</p><p>“In the Continental war which my brother quite correctly judges will happen sooner or later, the position of Italy will be important”, I explained. “At the moment the governments in Berlin and Vienna are doing everything in their power to ensure that Rome sides with them in the coming conflict. Great Britain mishandling an incident such as this could make that task much easier.”</p><p>“I see”, he said. “But what if Mr. Ricoletti is indeed guilty?”</p><p>“Like his ex-wife he is currently possessed of both Italian and British citizenship”, Randall said. “In the event that we can obtain sufficient proof, that evidence would be handed over along with him and/or her to the Italian government to do with as they see fit. Her Britannic Majesty's Government would not like it, but provided that they took him back home and kept him there, they would accept such a deal.”</p><p>“If it can be proven”, I said. “I believe that I shall need to stir myself and visit the crime scene.”</p><p>My brother hesitated, and I knew from long and bitter experience that he was about to say something irredeemably stupid. My instincts were as ever accurate.</p><p>“We are worried about the security repercussions of your.... 'friend', Sher...lock”, he said, eyeing me warily. “We feel that.....”</p><p>“No.”</p><p>“But....”</p><p>“The matter is <i>not</i> open for discussion”, I said coldly. “Kindly note that if you persist, then I might use my next visit home to inform Mother about you and Lord Kilburn's step-daughters. <i>All three of them!”</i></p><p>Our unwelcome visitor glared at Watson as he again made a point of muttering 'Lord Kilburn, step-daughters, <i>all three of them</i>' as he wrote quickly. If I was a bad person I would have smirked at my brother's displeasure but I did not. There may however have been a very slight smile.</p><p>“You would not tell her about all that!” our visitor scoffed. </p><p>I raised an eyebrow at him</p><p>
  <i>“Try me!”</i>
</p><p>And that was the first time Watson met my brother Randall. It is safe to say that things pretty much went downhill from there.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>The only thing that had surprised me that day was that neither Gregson nor LeStrade had called round to Montague Street, and I knew for a fact that it was one of Mrs. MacAndrew's baking-days, although with her recent upset today would be cake-free. I mentioned it to Watson once my annoying brother had left (and we had opened all the windows to rid the room of whatever he had taken a bath in that day!), and my friend told me that there was some major demonstration in the city so the police were likely very busy. Although not, he was sure, too busy to find time to come round for cake.</p><p>He really was dreadfully cynical. Unfortunately I had a strong feeling that he was right, so I sent out to a local bakery for a chocolate-cake so that Watson could have a slice too. The villain actually pouted when I told him that only three-eighths of it was for us and our friends, while the rest was for Mrs. MacAndrew who I knew would have been disappointed at having let down her frequent baking-day visitors. Sure enough, both men called round within the hour, and that was something perilously close to a smirk on my friend's face. I really could not abide people who smirked too much!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>The following day was fortunately one of the Saturdays on which Watson was not on call at the surgery, so he was able to accompany me to Rhododendron Lane which as he had said was only a short cab-ride from our rooms. It was a row of terraced houses, not the best area but not the worst either. All the properties were well-kept and inevitably there was a knot of people gathered outside Number Forty-Seven, with a constable on duty to keep them in order. I presented our credentials and we were admitted to the house to find his annoying brother waiting for us along with a worried-looking second constable who looked barely out of school.</p><p>“Constable Wood”, Randall said dismissively. “He found the body.”</p><p>I thought wryly that this fair-headed bean-pole in his early twenties had more decency in his little finger than my brother had in his entire body. LeStrade's only concern about him was that he was worried about his new wife who was pregnant, so I had spoken with Watson before coming here and we had arranged that he would draw the fellow into conversation and offer to help out by seeing the lady.</p><p>“You examined the body when you found it?” I asked.</p><p>The fellow blushed. </p><p>“I did, sir”, he muttered, looking anywhere but at us. “She was wearing one of those long thin dressing-gown things, and her..... her undergarments, sir.”</p><p>I had to suppress a smile at his struggle to get the dreadful word out. </p><p>“A kimono”, Watson supplied, like me having read the report. “An odd thing to wear around the house, especially at that time of day.”</p><p>“She had had a dress-fitting earlier”, Randall said dismissively. “It was a warm day, so perhaps she decided to remain in it.”</p><p>I gestured to a door in the wall.</p><p>“Does that lead into the Ricolettis' house?” I asked.</p><p>“Yes, sir”, the constable said, “but it's always locked. They keep a heavy dresser against the door on their side. Tim – Constable Wales – he noticed that when he interviewed the ex-wife this morning.”</p><p>“It is a pity that Mrs. Ricoletti had no motive”, Randall said heavily. “The reverse if anything; their divorce cannot be finalized while her husband is in gaol.”</p><p>“What if he is hanged?” I asked. </p><p>My brother shook his head.</p><p>“They both have to return to Italy to get the church elders to counter-sign their petition, a year and a day after it was lodged”, he explained. “It has to be done in person. If they fail to turn up then the marriage stands for five years from the original petition date.”</p><p>“That is cruel!” Watson said. </p><p>“The papers reported was that the fatal wound was in the neck?” I asked.</p><p>“That's right, sir”, the constable said. “It was definitely Mr. Ricoletti's knife. We found his fingerprints on it and his ex-wife confirmed it when we challenged her on it. Reluctantly, though.”</p><p>“Thank you, constable”, I said. “You have been most helpful. If you could please join your colleague outside for a moment, my brother and I have things to discuss.”</p><p>Constable Wood nodded and left us. Randall looked expectantly at me, presumably expecting me to magic up the guilty party from out of nowhere. If I had been able to do magic, I would have started by magicking someone to one of those small moons that they had found around Mars a while back.... </p><p>“I need to see the body and to visit Mr. Ricoletti's house”, I said, dragging myself reluctantly away from some Very Happy Thoughts. “Is his ex-wife at home?”</p><p>“Yes, and expecting us”, Randall said.</p><p>“Then let us not keep her waiting.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Although it is against human nature I do try to avoid judging on first appearances, but I have to say that I took an instant dislike to Miss Gina Ricoletti. I felt instinctively that I would not want her wielding a sharp instrument anywhere in my vicinity, and that I would trust her to about the same extent as a certain sibling in the vicinity. She was young, beautiful and charming but there was something cold and calculating about her even when she spoke of her soon to be ex-husband.</p><p>“Poor, poor Nico”, she said sadly. “I do not like to speak ill of the dead but That Woman led him on, the harridan!”</p><p>I strongly suspected that she found no problems at all speaking ill when it came to <i>some</i> of the dead. Worse, she was simpering at me. Ugh!</p><p>“How long had Mr. Ricoletti been seeing Miss Hanover?” I asked, wishing myself out of here already.</p><p>“He had been paying court to her ever since she moved in over a month ago”, she sniffed. “As far as I know they did not go out together; she enjoyed leading him on with him worshipping her on her pedestal. She had more than enough other male visitors, the Jezebel!”</p><p>Jealousy, I thought. Always a strong motive. But had she had both the means and the opportunity?</p><p>“What do <i>you</i> do for a living, Mrs. Ricoletti?” I asked. </p><p>“I work as a dress-maker”, she said. “I supply dresses to Debenham &amp; Hewitt¹ in Wigmore Street but I also do my own work. I was round there just after dinner yesterday afternoon fitting Miss Hanover for a new dress that she was purchasing. It must have been less than an hour before.....”</p><p>She tailed off and I could not help thinking that her whole performance was somewhat theatrical. But then I supposed that her ex-husband could be facing the gallows, ruining her own prospects in the short to medium term. I got up and walked over to the dresser.</p><p>
  <i>Aha!</i>
</p><p>“Is that a Meissen?” I asked, looking closely at a hideous vase.</p><p>“Oh no”, she smiled. “Just an old family piece from home.”</p><p>I studied the vase intently. At least that was what I wanted everyone to think. In truth I was looking at some rather interesting marks on the floor to the right of the frankly hideous dresser. And at something else. Sometimes even the smallest things could help condemn a murderer.</p><p>“Mr. Ricoletti works at a stonemason's?” I asked, not looking round.</p><p>“Yes, at the local works”, she said.”I suppose that that was in the newspaper; I did not read the article as it was too depressing.”</p><p>“No”, I smiled. “I just knew. We shall not take up any more of your valuable time, madam. Good day.”</p><p>I bowed to her, pointedly did not see her final simper, and led the way out. Once outside Randall turned to me.</p><p>“All right Sherlock, what do you know?”</p><p>I took us out into the street and away from the still considerable crowd before speaking.</p><p>“I would like for Watson to examine the late Miss Hanover.”</p><p>“What am I looking for?” my friend asked. </p><p>I smiled.</p><p>“If I told you that, you might find it anyway!” he said. “And that would make any evidence arguably inadmissible, always assuming that it comes to that. Let us go to the police-station and see what you can see!”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>“I find it odd that she was still wearing the kimono an hour <i>after</i> she tried on her new dress”, Watson observed as our cab took us to the station. “I remember the day of the murder and it was not that warm. Was there even a dress?”</p><p>“There was”, Randall said shortly, clearly not liking the fact that my friend had asked a good question. “We checked; Mrs. Ricoletti had started work on adjusting it for her and had the bill signed by Miss Hanover to prove it. And a fellow in his garden across the street reported that he saw Mrs. Ricoletti coming out of Number Forty-Seven and going back into her own house at the time she claimed.”</p><p>“Do not snap at the good doctor”, I said reprovingly. “His point is a valid one.”</p><p>Randall looked at me, then gasped.</p><p>“Do you mean she and Ricoletti were.... and then he..... ugh!”</p><p>“Pot, kettle, black”, I muttered.</p><p>Randall glared at me for that highly accurate remark. Fortunately the cab chose that minute to reach the station and we went inside.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Watson came out from his examination looking both tired and puzzled. He had clearly found something, but what?</p><p>“Well?” Randall demanded, as courteous and patient as ever.</p><p>“She was indeed stabbed”, my friend said. “With enough force to kill her.”</p><p>“We knew that!” Randall snapped.</p><p>“Except”, Watson went on, <i>”that</i> was not what killed her.”</p><p>I had the intense pleasure of seeing my brother very thoroughly discombobulated.</p><p>“She was strangled, but not by someone's hands”, Watson said. “Not a rope, or at least not anything cutting. The stab wound definitely occurred <i>after</i> the strangulation; I cannot say exactly how long but it must have been only a short time. The stabbing was done presumably to attempt to hide the real means of death.”</p><p>“But why would our Italian friend strangle her, then stab her?” Randall asked, clearly perplexed. “It makes no sense.”</p><p>“It makes perfect sense”, I said. “Well done, doctor. Randall, I am sure that one of your operatives could retrieve an item from Rhododendron Lane for me if I asked?”</p><p>“I suppose so”, he said cautiously. “What?”</p><p>I wrote down something on a slip of paper and handed it to him. He read it and looked at me curiously.</p><p>“Why...?” he began.</p><p>“Bring that to our rooms in two hours' time and I shall tell you how it was done”, I smiled.</p><p>“Sher, I really....”</p><p>“Call me that again and I will make you wait until next week!”</p><p>He baulked, and hurried off do do my bidding. I caught Watson stepping back and taking in a breath of cologne-free air; I likely should have reproved him for that but I felt exactly the same!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Two hours almost to the second later, Randall was duly shown in to our rooms and dropped something onto the table next to me. It was a frankly unremarkable white tape-measure, which Watson stared at in confoundment. </p><p>“Explain why I had to get such a dumb thing”, my brother demanded.</p><p>I raised an eyebrow at him and just smiled. There was some definite grinding of teeth.</p><p>“Please!” he managed. </p><p>I rated that about minus seven on the sincerity scale, which was good for him.</p><p>“Very well”, I said. “I am afraid that you will have to release Mr. Nicola Ricoletti, as the only crime that he is guilty of is that of possessing almost fatally poor judgement when it comes to the fairer sex.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Then you will have to contact the Italian Embassy”, I said, “as they are most definitely <i>not</i> going to like what has happened. But well-handled, I think that they will appreciate Her Majesty's Government's discretion in this matter, especially when one considers the fuss that could have been made. A less kind person would use the term 'whitewash' for such actions, but I shall not. <i>This time.”</i></p><p>“Discretion over what?” the pest demanded. </p><p>I settled myself comfortably into my chair. I could see that my brother was dangerously close to the foot-tapping stage and shot him a warning look. He seethed.</p><p>“At around two o' clock Mrs. Ricoletti calls on Miss Hanover to fit her for her new dress”, I began. “Miss Hanover was wearing a kimono in expectation of her visit and had planned to change back afterwards. Mrs. Ricoletti told her she needed to measure her collar, then simply crossed with the tape-measure and pulled around the neck. The whole process would have taken less than a minute.”</p><p>“But.... why....?” </p><p>“Because as I suspected and Constable Wood confirmed”, I said, “he does his rounds in much the same order every day. Mrs. Ricoletti had been monitoring him and knew that he would be along the street some time between half-past two and a quarter to three. She had someone at the door watching out for him; her lover Mr. Gianluca diMoro. It pains me that he will be able to claim diplomatic immunity for his part in this affair, although I am sure that the Italian government will have the decency to remove him from England when 'asked'. Better that than a formal expulsion with all the concomitant publicity.”</p><p>“Mrs. Ricoletti has already taken advantage of her lookout to ensure that a neighbour is in their garden when she <i>appears</i> to return to her own house. Once she is there, she rejoins her lover through the connecting door. On seeing the constable turning into the street Mr. diMoro returns to the house and forcibly stabs Miss Hanover in the neck; as the doctor rightly said there was a short time between the strangulation and the stabbing. As soon as the constable is close enough Mrs. Ricoletti screams, then they immediately leave through the connecting door.”</p><p>“That reminds me”, Watson said, “how did you know that Mr. Ricoletti worked at a stonemason's if it was not in the newspaper?” </p><p>I smiled.</p><p>“There was Portland stone dust around the vase in the Ricoletti house”, he explained. “And although the floor had been polished there were still faint marks from where the dresser had been moved back and then forward again; the marks had been accentuated by the presence of the stone dust. Obviously someone as slight as Mrs. Ricoletti could not have moved such a heavy item herself so she had to have had an accomplice.”</p><p>“The 'Meissen' vase!” he chuckled.</p><p>“Exactly”, I said. “To continue, the constable comes in and finds the blood-spattered knife which Mrs. Ricoletti took from her husband's coat the night before. His guilt is seemingly certain and he will face the punishment that she believes he deserves.”</p><p>“But she will not get her divorce”, Randall objected.</p><p>“Mrs. Ricoletti is a patriotic Italian”, I said, “a patriotism which has likely been aroused even further by her liaison with Mr. diMoro. I do not doubt that the latter, possibly because of Mr. Ricoletti's objections to his suit, informed Mrs. Ricoletti of Miss Hanover's true status and the desirability of getting rid of her. He may even have promised to wait for her divorce to be finalized. Which of the two was more instrumental in the plot I cannot say, but I favour the woman. This was in every sense a crime of passion.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>I was right, as always. Her Majesty's Government presented the evidence to the Italians and requested (very firmly requested) that Mr. diMoro be withdrawn with immediate effect. Fortunately the Italians saw sense and he was out of the country within a week. Mrs. Ricoletti was charged with murder but the British government accepted that she be allowed to serve a life sentence in an Italian jail where she remained until her death in 1904. Her husband also returned to Italy; his religious elders decided that in this particular case some flexibility might be shown and he was granted a divorce, soon after which he remarried. Frankly I would have thought that the institution and for that matter women in general might have lost their appeal, but there you are.</p><p>I did not forget Mrs. MacAndrew's sister either, and was able to secure better jobs for both her husband and remaining son which helped her to keep her house.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>
  <i>Notes:</i>
  <br/>
  <i>1) Founded as Clark's Drapery in 1778, it became Clark &amp; Debenham when Mr. William Debenham became a partner in 1813. By 1837 the addition of two more partners had made it Debenham, Pooley &amp; Smith, and in 1851 it became Debenham &amp; Freebody. It had become Debenham &amp; Hewitt just two years before this story is set and by 1905 it would be just Debenhams Limited. As of 2021 it is in administration, having been forced to close large numbers of its stores but still trading online.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Questions And Answers</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>April 1878. John meets Mr. Langdale Pike, gossip-monger extraordinaire. And Sherlock shows that solving a case is not always about finding the right answer but actually ensuring that one asks the right question.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>One of more foolish questions asked by those who read Watson's work over the years was as to why I did not introduce him to as many of my family as soon as possible. The answer to that was obvious; because one does not expose any man to that much horror in one dose in case it breaks him! That he had survived his first encounter with Randall (who predictably had done himself no favours by subsequently coming round and complaining that I had involved my friend in such an important case) was frankly a relief, but he still had several family members to go and he was about to run into another one, or at least in rather different circumstances to their first meeting. And he was also set to meet one of the more colourful characters of London life.</p><p>My friend was also very busy just now, as he had not only his surgery work (although at least with the advent of spring that was tailing off a little) but also his writing up of our Oxford adventure. He had written out a base plan dividing it into eight parts but he had struggled over even the first of these, so I had suggested that I might buy him something chocolatey from the local bakery upon the completion of each section. I had pointed out that food was often a great motivation for some people; we had been at breakfast at the time and I had felt that he had nodded a shade too fervently as he had passed me over all his rashers. Strange.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>It was one of those utterly unfunny ironies that I had a major shock on All Fool's Day that year. Frankly a practical joke would have been better.</p><p>The day before had seen the newspapers filled with the news that after the overwhelming Russian victory over the Ottomans and with their troops still perilously close to Constantinople, Mr. Disraeli had called up the reserves so that the Nation was ready for war. It was that age-old problem; when did one get involved in Continental messes and when did one not, as the politicians did not have handy crystal balls to tell them which messes would become bigger messes and which were just passing annoyances.</p><p>Apparently I now faced the risk of getting rather more involved that even the recent Ricoletti Case, because one morning, and thankfully after I had just finished the last of my (all right. Watson's) bacon, he sprung a dreadful shock on me.</p><p>“I was thinking that I might go.”</p><p>I looked at him in confusion. I had only had my usual first two coffees so was not quite fully coherent yet.</p><p>“Go where?” I asked.</p><p>“To the Mediterranean”, he said to my utter horror. “Our Army will need doctors to treat all our brave men.”</p><p>I do not know how I managed to control my reaction to such a terrifying suggestion. Mercifully my third coffee was to hand and I downed it in a single go. Such was my shock that it barely registered.</p><p>“But the fighting is nearly over”, I objected.</p><p>“I doubt that Mr. Disraeli will accept this one-sided Treaty of San Stefano”, he said. “If they do call for doctors, I might well sign up.</p><p>This was terrible!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>My eldest sister Hope had as I have said married a politician called Mr. Jacob Rhynes, a spindly fellow of seemingly little consequence who, whether he willed it or no, was destined for whatever high office my sister chose for him. She was in some ways similar to Kerry; both were terrifyingly focussed on getting what they wanted regardless of those around them (although unlike Randall, both had a large degree of humanity), but they could hardly have been more different. Hope was very much like Mother, a tall Amazon of a lady who could look at you and make you think that she was weighing up just where to bury your body. Technically Watson had met her as he had ended up attending at the birth of her fourth son Thomas last year, but then that is not quite the same as meeting a lady in person as they tend to have been somewhat distracted for some reason. Parenthood is after all a traumatic time for both parents.</p><p>Hope turned up at our rooms on Maundy Thursday. She did not of course announce her coming because, well, she was Hope. And likely because she knew full well that I would have made a run for it!</p><p>“Sherlock!” she boomed (I forgot to mention that she had a voice that could have served as a foghorn; I definitely saw Watson wince). “It has been far too long!”</p><p>She was on me before I had time to escape, hugging me to an extent that I gasped and was sure that I was about to start turning blue before she mercifully released her stranglehold. “And this must be the famous Watson!”</p><p>My friend was fortunate that there were several items of furniture between him and his potential assailant. I prepared myself, but to my surprise she just shrugged her shoulders and took a seat.</p><p>Strange. <i>And damnably unfair!</i></p><p>“I am here about that fellow Bussey!” she boomed. “I am sure that he is up to something!”</p><p><i>Likely he must have heard you say that if he is anywhere within the city limits</i>, I thought but very wisely did not say. The last and thus far only family member to remark on our eldest sibling's volume had been Hilton, but the doctors had been able to repair his broken nose. Although with his face, I doubt that anyone would have noticed anyway.</p><p>“Who is this gentleman?” I asked.</p><p>“Is it Mr. Ellis Bussey?” Watson asked helpfully.</p><p>“That is him!” my sister roared (seriously, we would be getting complaints from the neighbours if this went on much longer, and possibly even the British Museum across the street). “Married to Jane. I need you to investigate these Topsy rumours about him!”</p><p>I stared at her in confusion, and not just because my ears were still ringing.</p><p>“What rumours?” I asked.</p><p>“You mean in the society-magazine of that name?” Watson asked. “I doubt that anyone would take something that they come out with. They print nothing but salacious gossip.”</p><p>I smiled and waited. Sure enough there was the blush as he realized he had admitted to reading such rubbish.</p><p>“They say that he is having an affair with some woman at the Commons!” my sister bellowed. “Utter tripe; I contacted Moira to check but she said it was untrue. I want to know what is going on!”</p><p>I was beginning to get a headache, and I had not even got to what she wanted me to do yet. </p><p>“How can I help?” I asked.</p><p>“I want to know why these stories are coming out!” she blared. “That idiot is a rival to my Jake when it comes to his next promotion, and I do not trust him one inch. Make it happen, brother!”</p><p>She rose, nodded to us both and left. I let out a heavy breath once she was gone, and so did Watson.</p><p>“Please tell me that none of the ones I have yet to meet are as bad as that!” he said forcibly. “I just thought she was loud because she was giving birth at the time, not that she could actually be louder!”</p><p>I was about to say that he was safe when I remembered; he had not yet met Hilton. </p><p>He looked at me and groaned.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Normally I would have gone to Moira who, I was sure, could have told me not only who had supplied the story to that magazine but also what their favourite colour was and what they had had for breakfast that morning. However I knew that she and her husband were off to Scotland for a week's holiday today and although they were going by the Night Sleeper, I did not wish to disrupt her preparations. So instead I took Watson round to the offices of one of London's more remarkable citizens.</p><p>“'Mr. Langdale Pike'”, he said, reading the name off the frosted glass. “What does he do for a living?”</p><p>“He keeps society together”, I said.</p><p>He just looked at me in confusion.</p><p>“Like my sister Moira, he gathers information”, I explained. “However he restricts himself to the more powerful in society, ensuring that if they misbehave it will be in the knowledge that he will find out about them and may well decide to make that information public.”</p><p>He frowned.</p><p>“Do you mean blackmail?” he asked.</p><p>I shook my head.</p><p>“He is independently wealthy so does not take payment most of the time”, I said. “His parents were both fell-walkers and publishers; they made a fortune by putting out booklets for those strange people who enjoy walking up and down hills for a pastime.”</p><p>“A most unusual name”, he said.</p><p>“Yes”, I said. “I am afraid that it is the old one where perhaps the French law banning certain naming choices might be thought to have been justified. His parents named all four of their sons after hills in the Lakes; his brothers are Bowfell, Scafell and Blisco.”</p><p>He winced.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Mr. Pike had assisted me in the matter of the Greenwood inheritance some five years back, and had not changed much in that time. He did not seem surprised at our advent, but then I was not surprised at that.</p><p>“You are here about the strange story concerning your sister's husband's political rival, the unpleasant Mr. Bussey”, Mr. Pike said, playing with that strange swinging balls device that he still kept on his desk, and whose purpose I had still not fathomed. “Yes, I thought that you might. A very stupid man to have aroused the wrath of your eldest sister, at least without having first secured a pair of excellent ear-plugs.”</p><p>I thought that a tad cruel but undeniably true. Mr. Pike thought for a moment.</p><p>“You see, gentlemen, this is all about questions and answers. People are foolish, and they think that if they find an answer then that is it. But that depends on their first having asked the right question.”</p><p>Watson looked suitable perplexed, but I could see where Mr. Pike was going with this.</p><p>“The question being 'is Mr. Bussey conducting an illicit affair?'”, I said. “The answer being 'no'. However there is another, better question which will not now be asked.”</p><p>Mr. Pike beamed at me. I felt rather stupidly like a pupil who had just solved a particularly difficult problem.</p><p>“Mr. Bussey may have the charisma of a cow-pat and a wife who always seems to spend rather too long with delivery-men 'settling matters'”, he said with what was definitely a knowing smile, “but he is astute in some ways. You see it now, sir?”</p><p>I nodded.</p><p>“He leaked the allegations to the magazine himself”, I said, “knowing that nothing would come of it and there would be a reaction in his favour. Also that any further allegations would have people muttering about a campaign against him by his rivals, or enemies in the press.”</p><p>“Laying a false trail”, Mr. Pike said. “While the coal-merchant, the baker and the fruiterer are laying Mrs. Bussey!”</p><p>John winced at that.</p><p>“Can it be proven?” I wondered.</p><p>“Almost certainly not”, he said. “But I would remind you of the matter of the Augean Stables. And that some things cannot be blanked out.”</p><p>I saw the historical analogy, and winced at the implication that.... well!</p><p>“The trouble with the tide of public interest”, I said, “is that it often moved to go where people do not wish it!”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>I paid Mr. Pike and we left, with Watson pouting that I would not immediately tell him of my plans. Although when we stopped at that restaurant on the corner of Trafalgar Square whose chocolate cake he did not eulogize over at every opportunity (honestly, some gentlemen and their foods!), his mood improved. Even more so when I decided that I did not like the cake so let him have mine to finish.</p><p>“The Augean Stables were one of the Labours of Hercules”, I explained as he looked mournfully at his (second) empty plate. “The great hero was tasked with cleaning out the king's stables, where the immortal beasts had accrued a huge amount of.... political promises.”</p><p>He smiled at my side-step.</p><p>“He achieved his task by diverting two local rivers through the stables, carrying all the..... political promises out to sea”, I said. “Similarly Mr. Bussey thought to divert public opinion away from his other less salubrious behaviour.”</p><p>“Sleeping with other women?” Watson asked. “What could be less salubrious than that?”</p><p>“Paying for other men to sleep with his wife.”</p><p>He stared at me in shock.</p><p>“That was what Mr. Pike meant when he mentioned blanks”, I said. “In the vernacular, what Mr. Bussey is firing. He wants children, so he arranges with his wife that she can take lovers with them, then he raises the children.”</p><p>“Another man's children?” he exclaimed.</p><p>“Some men, and some women for that matter, are desperate to have a family”, I said. “In his case that desperation is increased by his political ambitions; he has been married some ten years so without his five children there would certainly have been comment. It is unfair, but some would mark his inability against him.”</p><p>He shook his head at all this, and frankly I did not blame him.</p><p>“But the trouble with such a tactic is that it may well backfire”, I smiled. “One never knows what else the society-magazines will find our to titillate those few people who read such rubbish!”</p><p>He was midway through a nod when he spotted it, and blushed fiercely.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>A few days later one of the other society-magazines (which Watson never read yet still somehow mysteriously found their way to the second drawer down of his bedside cabinet) had another story about Mr. Ellis Bussey or at least his wife and.... really? I mean, the coal-merchant, the baker, the fruiterer and the Turkish rug-salesman were bad enough, but her husband's own nephew? What were things coming to in politics?</p><p>Mr. Bussey resigned later that day, and I also got a note from Hope which gave me intense relief (I mean when compared to the alternative of another ear-splitting visit!). At least I was relieved until she got to the part as to how she and her husband were celebrating him being told he would be promoted soon, when they had gone and.... was that even possible?</p><p>Nine months later she had her fourth son, who they called Victor. Apparently it had been possible! Little wonder that my poor brother-in-law always looked so tired!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. Poetic Justice</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>June 1878. A rich nobleman is concerned that his family it about to be traduced unfairly – but Sherlock finds out that there is more to a few lines of poetic verse than meets the eye. It starts with kippers, then goes via a gardener, two maids and some fish-net stockings.....</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This was one of those curious cases when I arguably failed to provide what my client wished, and yet succeeded in securing justice. Small though the matter was, it showed me that no-one should ever be underestimated.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>We could not know it at the time (although I am sure that some book-makers would have accepted wagers on it) but the eventual sorting out of the latest Balkan mess at the Congress of Berlin that year was to have consequences that would eventually lead to the Great War, as the various nationalities down there fought for their independence with various degrees of success. The consequences and details were complicated, but they added up to a fully independent Rumania (then minus Transylvania, which was part of Austria-Hungary), while Bulgaria, Serbia and Montenegro became independent in all but name, their former Ottoman masters maintaining a fig-leaf of overlordship which no-one believed for a moment. Also the island of Cyprus was similarly transferred to Great Britain as a bastion to help defend the Suez Canal, like Egypt nominally part of the Ottoman Empire but in reality not.</p><p>More serious and something that would nearly cause an earlier start to the Great War than expected was the compromise effected over the disputatious provinces of Bosnia and Herzegovina. Ethnically and religiously diverse, they remained under Ottoman suzerainty but were actually administered by Austria-Hungary. This led to much hatred between Vienna and St. Petersburg, and hence to closer relations between Vienna and Berlin. Austria-Hungary would in 1908 annex the two provinces, but today (1936) they along with Serbia, Montenegro, the Imperial provinces of Croatia and Slovenia and part of Ottoman Macedonia form the modern state of Yugoslavia. If ever there was a Nation put together that was designed to fall apart one day, that is surely it!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>I may have remarked to Watson on the odd occasion – certainly not <i>ad nauseam</i> as he claimed – that a brain was like a room, and filling it with clutter made for less efficient working. For some strange and inexplicable reason on the very rare occasions that I did say it, he would always look across at my arguably less than tidy side of our main room, look back at me, then nod fervently for some reason.</p><p>I was also observant, and one of the things that I had noticed about my friend was that as well as his only very occasional glancing at the society-pages in the newspapers if they happened to be open at that page and he just happened to have been passing just then, he also had a passion for history. One of his most prized possessions was a set of ten encyclopedias covering our Nation's proud history which I had given him for his last birthday, telling him that I had picked up cheap through a friend of Father's (I had actually paid over the odds for them as they were ones he had been looking at in a magazine but had passed over as too expensive). Then there was his frankly inexplicable interest in going round cathedrals and other old buildings, even ruined ones. A pile of stones in a field was surely a pile of stones in a field, whatever it had been or whoever had built it in the long distant past. </p><p>One of the downsides of being a consulting-detective is, like Watson, I do not always get to choose my clients. I could always decline to take a case but as I have said before, at this early stage in my career I did not wish to be making enemies, especially among people who could severely damage my prospects if they felt so inclined (as many were vindictive enough to do, sadly). I was bearing this in mind when the fifty-year-old Mr. Oliphant Letterford-Wynne, better known according to his card as Lord Howard of Remenham, strode into our rooms and very pointedly placed his handkerchief on the sofa before seating his ample posterior. </p><p>Some people started with a rock-bottom score yet still proceeded to lose points!</p><p>I should mention here that, despite the name, this Lord Howard had no connection to the famous Norfolk dukes, as he was but a minor baron in a part of western Staffordshire. However among his land-holdings (all four of which were listed on his calling-card in capital letters!) was one particular possession which I knew would interest Watson greatly as he had mentioned it to me one time, so I refrained from ejecting this idiot. For now.</p><p>The nobleman looked around our room disdainfully.</p><p>“I want you to find something”, he said shortly.</p><p>I reminded myself that even the British aristocracy was bound to have the odd bad apple. I only had to look at Gregson's family to see that.</p><p>“What 'something', sir?” I inquired.</p><p>“A book of poetry”, he said. “Sort of.”</p><p>It was going to be one of what Watson rightly called Those Interviews (capitals required). I sighed to myself.</p><p>“I shall need rather more than that, sir”, I said firmly. “Is it just one book or has it actually been published in large numbers? If the latter.....”</p><p>“Just the one, thank God!” he interrupted, frowning at Watson now. <i>“Must</i> he be here?”</p><p>I wondered idly if the window that Mrs. MacAndrew had had replaced last month would open wide enough to get a body through. I had always expected (hoped) that my brother Randall would be the first to test Sir Isaac Newton's theories if I could get him (Randall, not Sir Isaac) to call round when the pavement below was quiet, but......</p><p>I was distracted from some pleasant scientific musings by a knock at the door, and a manservant appeared holding a newspaper. He was about thirty years old, flaxen-haired and well-kempt, and presumably linked to our unpleasant guest as the latter nodded at his entrance.</p><p>“About bloody time, Newcomen!” the nobleman grumbled. “You tell them. I will wait in the carriage. Do not be long about it, either!”</p><p>He grabbed the newspaper from the fellow and stormed off, apparently not noticing the somewhat questionable gesture that the medical personage holding the door open for him made as he left. His manservant sighed and looked inquiringly at me.</p><p>“Pray take a seat, Mr. Newcomen”, I smiled. “I hope that you can be more communicative than your master, although that is a low bar.”</p><p>The young fellow sighed and sat down, looking surprised when Watson handed him a drink. He probably needed several with an employer like that; I know that I did and that was from just meeting him.</p><p>Watson must have read my mind, for having served our guest he set about making me a much-needed coffee. He was a <i>good</i> friend!</p><p>“I can only apologize for my master, sirs”, the manservant said with a sigh. “He is very angry over the whole affair and blames everybody to hand.....”</p><p>“You are welcome here”, I cut in, “but please start at the beginning. Kindly take your time; I would rather have all the facts given the nature of your employer. If he makes a fuss when you do rejoin him, you can merely say that I asked you a lot of questions.”</p><p>“Yes, tell us about the elephant... I mean Oliphant”, Watson smiled.</p><p>Our (welcome) guest smiled at that and began.</p><p>“My name is Mr. Thomas Newcomen”, he began, “and you have seen my master so you know full well what sort of person he is. He was married three times and each wife left him. Incredibly each won a settlement from him in the courts.”</p><p>That was I knew truly damning, for the courts were still strongly biased in favour of the husband in such cases. For a man to lose three times in a row.... but then we had met him. It was not surprising at all, really.</p><p>“From his marriages my master had four surviving sons who, I am pleased to say, are nothing like him”, Mr. Newcomen said. “The eldest, Adam, is a most pleasant young gentleman and I know my master would like to disinherit him but the terms of the estate mean that he cannot. He has however settled the remainder of the estate equally between the three other sons – also also good men – and his one surviving daughter Mary-Theresa.”</p><p>I looked at him sharply. There was something very obviously not there.</p><p>“I am to take it that this Mary-Theresa is not as good as her brothers?” I asked.</p><p>Mr. Newcomen looked around the room almost fearfully.</p><p>“My mother would clip my ear if I called her what she deserves to be called, sirs”, he said (I could empathize with the Magically Appearing Mother; mine had that trick down to perfection as the likes of Randall, Hilton and Guilford could have painfully attested to!). “Lady Mary-Theresa really is the most terrible creature; she has no looks and is spoken of with dread by all who know her.”</p><p>He took a deep breath.</p><p>“Did my master mention poetry at all?” he asked.</p><p>“He did”, I said. “Along with an expectation that I would obtain a book about it for some reason; mercifully he left before explaining further for which we here assembled are all grateful. I am all agog to hear how rhyme fits into this matter.”</p><p>“It was lucky that my brother Adrian works for our neighbour Lord Foxfield, sirs”, our visitor said. “You see, Lord Foxfield's youngest Jamie, he took a fancy to Lady Mary-Theresa for some reason – Lord alone knows why but that is love for you – and she strung him along good and proper. Adey and I knew exactly how it would end; I can only thank the Good Lord that my brother had his wits about him when it did. When she finally slapped him down and in public he was a broken man, but Adey had replaced the bullets in his revolver with blanks. His father was shocked when it all came out and had him sent to America, Adey going with him the lucky dog. It could have ended so much worse for all <i>she</i> cared.”</p><p>“And the poetry?” Watson asked.</p><p>“Jamie was always writing her verses”, Mr. Newcomen said with a smile. “After the.... incident, he was in a sanatorium for a month or so, recovering I suppose. It was only when he was leaving that Adey told me; Jamie had written a set of verses about what she was really like. He had sent it to a publisher to have it all put together nice; I don't rightly know what for.”</p><p>I frowned as I puzzled this through. There were at least two obvious problems here. Better to deal with the immediate one first.</p><p>“You should tell your master that I shall be taking his case”, I said. “However you must also tell him that I have an important matter on hand, and as it involves a distant relation of our dear Queen it is of great urgency. But I should be able to come up to Staffordshire next week.”</p><p>“I doubt that he will like playing second fiddle to even Her Majesty!” Mr. Newcomen sighed. </p><p>“May I ask if you have any other family besides your brother?” I asked. </p><p>He shook his head.</p><p>“It's just me now”, he said. “Our family has some sort of blood disease where there's a strong chance of it passing to the next generation, or at least men passing it on. Adey and I both decided not to take the risk; it's a hard enough life for children as it is these days.”</p><p>“I see”, I smiled. “Well, I hope to see you next week, Mr. Newcomen. As well as your, ahem, 'interesting' employer.”</p><p>He smiled at me, stood, bowed and left.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>“I did not know that you had a case involving royalty”, Watson said as soon as Mr. Newcomen had gone.</p><p>I noted how down he looked at seemingly having missed out on a case of mine. I would never willingly undertake a case without him if I could avoid it although as I have said before, I did not like to think too closely as to just how that situation had come about. Because.</p><p>“I have not”, I said, to his evident surprise.</p><p>He baulked.</p><p>“But you said....”</p><p>“I think that there is a lot more to this case than meets the eye”, I said. “I wish to have a few days to put some measures in place, as I very much doubt that Lord Howard will be pleased with the result of my investigations.”</p><p>“You do not think you will be able to find this poetry book?” he asked.</p><p>“Yes and no.”</p><p>His pout was just <i>glorious!</i></p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>I had learned from Moira that Lord Howard and his unpleasant daughter would be away that week-end visiting some unfortunate relative on the  Yorkshire coast, so I arranged for three actors to travel up there disguised as policemen and visit his house. Their job was to question every single staff member about any scandal associated with the family, and to find out who knew what about whom. When Lord Howard returned he would of course march round to the local police-station to complain, which would lead to him realizing that the 'policemen' had been impostors upon which he would rush down to London in a complete panic. So I borrowed Watson from his surgery for a week and we decamped to Staffordshire where we toured around the many sites, including the ones owned by our unpleasant client. </p><p>As I had known he would, my friend took great pleasure in the ruins of Chartley Castle. It looked to me like nothing more than a grassy mound with a few stones on it, but I wisely kept that thought to myself.</p><p>“If I did not know you better I would have thought you only took this case because you know how much I love the story of Mary Queen of Scots”, he said. “Tragic and yet so inevitable.”</p><p>He missed my slight smile.</p><p>“I suppose that there is some mystique about the ex-queen trapped in a castle tower”, I said. “Although you said that she was allowed some freedom, if strictly supervised.”</p><p>“The owner at the time was Sir Amyas Paulet”, he said. “The sort of Puritan who would have enjoyed fining people for smiling too much; I remember reading how he used to go round her apartments tearing down her coats of arms. Lord Howard is not a descendant of his, much as he acts like one.</p><p>He stopped, suddenly looking worried.</p><p>“What is it?” I asked.</p><p>“I just thought”, he said, his eyes wide. “What if your mother hears of this?”</p><p>I could share his horror now. As I had said before, Mother did indeed have 'fads' when her normally terrible stories centred around a theme for a while and somehow contrived to become even worse. Proof that miracles did happen, I suppose, if not in a way that was at all beneficial.</p><p>“But you could send her the idea while we are away somewhere else?” he suggested with a smile.</p><p>He really was becoming a bad influence on me.... but on the other hand, it was an idea!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>As I had hoped, Lord Howard had indeed raced down to London when he had feared that journalists were digging into his family's background. He was it turned out right to be fearful; I had had a group of experts decoding the secret messages in the departed Mr. Foxfield’s poetry book and….. all I can say is, ugh! It nearly put me off my bacon!</p><p>Well, nearly.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>The following Tuesday I arranged for a copy of the poetry book to be forwarded by express courier to Lord Howard; I knew that he was in no way intelligent enough to work out the references in it. But then most readers would soon not have to. I also put in place certain other arrangements and on Friday I was able to call in at Stowe-next-Chartley Manor to meet my client.</p><p>Lord Howard greeted us with his daughter, and it was really bad of someone in my party to whisper that even he could have solved the mystery of who had eaten all the pies. If they had been staying anywhere on the Yorkshire coast this past weekend, they had both been lucky not to have been harpooned by a passing whaler!</p><p>Watson really was becoming a terrible influence on me!</p><p>“Well?” the nobleman demanded imperiously. “You had better have some good news for me, Mr. Holmes. First those fake policemen digging around the place, then I learned this morning that Newcomen has sodded off to join his brother in America without so much as a thank-you.”</p><p><i>What would he have had to have thanked you for?</i> I thought dryly. </p><p>“Have you read the book that I sent you?” I asked instead.</p><p>“Did”, he said shortly. “Lot of blather. Seemed harmless enough.”</p><p>“The letter with it, sir?” I pressed.</p><p>“Young whipper-snapper sending copes to all the important families in the area”, he sniffed. “Stupid thing to do, but then the boy always was a fool.”</p><p>Watson, bastard that he was at times, looked quite pointedly at Lady Mary-Theresa at that point, clearly referencing the departed Mr. Foxfield's choice in females as a case in point. He was so bad!</p><p>“I am afraid that young Mr. Foxfield was rather cleverer than any of us gave him credit for”, I said, shooting someone a warning look and receiving an unbelievably innocent one in return. “In all the books sent to the families in the area there was a short note stating that a second and more important missive was to follow.”</p><p>He suddenly went very white.</p><p>“A <i>second</i> book?” he said querulously. </p><p>I shook my head.</p><p>“What one might call a translator”, I said. “It showed who the subject in each poem really was – and I am afraid that in every case it was either you or your daughter....”</p><p>
  <i>”What?!”</i>
</p><p>“There are thirty poems in all”, I said, “and each makes a specific allegation. Of course no-one would believe the ones about the fish-net stockings or the two maids, or the whips, or the recently-departed gardener, and definitely not the one about the kippers......”</p><p>He stared at me, dumbfounded. Beside him his daughter also had her mouth open. I am sure it was Watson's influence that made me want to toss a penny into each, but I somehow refrained. Although I felt my hand inching towards my pocket....</p><p>
  <i>I was going to have to start leaving him behind at this rate!</i>
</p><p>“Indeed”, I said, pressing my hand into the side of my pocket while wishing for better friends. “Mr. Foxfield's preparations were it seems very thorough. The tragedy is that I came too late to stop him, but even I can only do so much. I did have some questions for your Mr. Newcomen about his role in things and sent to tell him that, which I suspect was why he fled the country.”</p><p>Because it could not have been the fact that Lord Foxfield and I had combined to pay for his passage, and I had taken the precaution of having Mark provide him with a false identity just in case the blackguard before me tried anything to fetch him back. I mean, <i>kippers</i>.....</p><p>Mother must never get to hear of that!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Lord Howard and his unpleasant daughter were unable to face Staffordshire society again, and decamped to his estate in the Far North of Scotland where, sadly, they did not get gored by any stags. I later received a telegram of thanks from Mr. Newcomen in the United States; he had met up with his brother and the two of them were happy working for Mr. James Foxfield. But for a long time afterwards I was unable to face kippers!</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0019"><h2>19. High-Speed Theft</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>September 1878. A most unusual case as the criminal uses the wonders of modern technology to get away with something that had seemed quite impossible – until Sherlock finds them out. Also a change of address looms, which for the great detective brings a horrific realization.<br/>Mentioned also as the adventure of Mrs. Farintosh's opal tiara.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This month did not start well when there was a major disaster on the third. The steam-ship 'Princess Alice' had taken around eight hundred passengers on a moonlight cruise to the Rosherville Pleasure Gardens down in Gravesend and, while returning, had collided with the huge collier 'Bywell Castle', the smaller ship breaking in two and sinking almost immediately. Unhappily this had occurred at Gallions Reach near where the city's sewage discharged into the Thames, so although around one hundred and thirty people made it into the water some of those later died because of what they had ingested. The doomed ship had not had a list of passengers so the exact death toll would never be known, and later investigations showed that her captain had foolishly allowed his helmsman to stay in Gravesend and instead employed a seaman passenger, who had steered the ship to its doom. The inquest later criticized the lack of life-saving equipment on the steam-ship, a lesson which, as a later generation well knows, was not fully heeded.</p><p>Some nine days after this disaster it was a glorious late summer's day when my well-ordered world tripped and tumbled towards disaster. As did our landlady Mrs. MacAndrew, who really should not have been carrying a tray up our stairs at her age, but had been covering for the absence of two of her maids on the same day. Thankfully I heard the commotion and, despite the lady's protests, insisted on her being taken to hospital for a check-up. Even more thankfully nothing was broken, but the lady herself still looked shaken when I called on her later. And worse, she had that sort of look that ladies have which suggest that they are about to come out with something that a gentleman Would Not Like.</p><p>Sometimes it was irritating always being right.</p><p>“I have been considering selling the house and going to live with my sister up in the Trossachs”, she said. “She had a delightful cottage right by the waterside and I stayed there once before, plus I can pay my way and help out with what I have saved.”</p><p>“Then you should go”, I said. “Why would you not?”</p><p>She blushed.</p><p>“It is just..... all the arrangements”, she said. “Neither Mary nor I are good at that sort of thing. Then there are all my tenants....”</p><p>“Mrs. MacAndrew”, I interrupted, “I will of course help you with whatever needs doing to speed you on your way. And I have friends who can make sure your other tenants find something suitable.”</p><p>She was still unsure, I noted. I wondered why.</p><p>“It is just you and the good doctor”, she said. “You have settled in so well together, and I did hope that you might have some years to.... establish yourselves. I wondered if he might seek a place of his own, perhaps one of those private houses that a number of his colleagues fund and then live in together, using some of the rooms as a surgery. I did read that that is becoming more common.”</p><p>I was horrified! Fortunately having grown up in the bedlam that was my own family I had long been able to cloak my emotions, so despite my insides apparently seizing up I managed a smile. I think.</p><p>“Do not worry about us”, I said, much as I was now worrying mightily about us. “I am sure that I can sort something out.”</p><p>She smiled in gratitude, while I was grateful that I had filled my hip-flask that morning. Because between leaving her room and the hospital exit, it was empty again.</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>To add to my cup of woes I had to go to Moira for help, as she would likely know someone who could quickly find rooms for me and Watson. In between smirking almost too much for a bigger and more muscular elder sister she contacted three such people, and within a few hours she had something.</p><p>“You did not want much”, she smiled. “Cheap, a central location, walking distance from the doctor's surgery... such places do not grow on trees. The only one that is remotely suitable is over in Cramer Street.”</p><p>I looked anxiously at her. There was definite hint of an approaching 'but' in her tone of voice.</p><p>“It is time-limited”, she admitted, “but I think that five years is enough for you. <i>And</i> the doctor.”</p><p>Then she went and smirked again. How I managed to thank her with a straight face was frankly a miracle of the first order!</p>
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  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Watson arrived home full of the news that some large lump of rock from  Egypt had just been unveiled to public view, which event he apparently found interesting for some reason. He expounded that this so-called Cleopatra's Needle' dated from many centuries before that famous queen and that he despaired of our fellow citizens at times. At least he was happy, especially so because he had completed the last hurdle to obtaining his covered diploma and could now officially have the letters 'M.D.' after his name. </p><p>That happiness was not to last.</p><p>“We have a problem”, I announced once dinner was over.</p><p>I knew that he already suspected something was amiss, as our normally dependable food had been decidedly sub-standard. He looked at me anxiously..</p><p>“Another case?” he asked hopefully. </p><p>I shook my head.</p><p>“More serious than that”, I said. “We may be about to become homeless.”</p><p>“What?” he exclaimed in horror.</p><p>“Mrs. MacAndrew suffered a fall coming up the stairs this morning shortly after you left”, I said. “Naturally I took her straight to the hospital but the doctor says that she needs complete rest and relaxation and she has decided to go and live with her sister in Scotland to achieve this. Hence she is selling this house which means we shall likely need to find somewhere else to live. The new owner may wish to keep us on but we cannot be sure of that.”</p><p>I eyed him anxiously, wondering if he was going to mention that he had in fact been thinking about obtaining his own place. Mercifully he said nothing. Phew!</p><p>“My sister Moira was able to find a few places available at the short notice we have”, I went on, “and a Mrs. Hall who has a house in in Cramer Street is offering rooms to let at a reasonable rate. It is still fairly close to your surgery, though not quite as much as here.”</p><p>“I do not know the road”, I said.</p><p>“It is a quiet thoroughfare just west of and parallel to Marylebone High Street”, I said. “Slightly further from your surgery I think but not by much; still within a mile. I went round today to take a look at the place; the rooms are similar to the ones we have here, maybe a little larger, and the area is pleasant enough. The only problem is that Mrs. Hall is planning to emigrate to the United States five years from now – it is all arranged - so she will definitely be selling the house at that time. But the rooms are good and bearing in mind the urgency of our situation, it would do for now.”</p><p>I knew that for my friend, the distance to the surgery was all important as his often straitened finances meant that he hardly ever took a cab to work unless the weather was appalling. And he still wanted to share rooms with me. I would be going to church for once this Sunday and putting a most generous donation in the plate.</p><p>“I know that you are free this Saturday”, I said, “so I told Mrs. Hall that we would be round to view the rooms then and let her know our decision straight away. I hope that is acceptable?”</p><p>“That sounds very good”, he said. </p><p>He nodded and resumed his dinner. I supposed that at least I would not miss the maid service here. All the dust that the latest one had left in our room was making my eyes water.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Mrs. Evadne Hall was on first sight somewhat frightening. Upon further consideration, I retract the 'somewhat'. She was a large lady and her excessive use of lilac-water – it was like walking into a wall of scent – made my eyes run from the moment that I entered her house. I had feared that that in itself might preclude our taking her rooms but happily as things turned out she owned two houses and lived in the other one, this property being run by her sister Miss Letitia Hellingly. The latter lady was shorter, a lot more refined and, mercifully, approximately ninety-eight per cent less pungent! Mrs. Hall was also eyeing up me in a way that was quite unbecoming even for her, and which was making me hope that her own house was many miles away as well as preferably downwind of here! Fortunately the rooms and terms both proved adequate and on the (unspoken) understanding that we would see – and smell! – precious little of her, we agreed to the move.</p><p>Although Watson was supposed to have had the day off that day it was just his luck that the surgery was called by a patient at the other end of Cramer Street, and since they knew that he would be there he received a telegram asking him to call on a lady when we were done. I headed back to Montague Street while he went to 'Mistletoe Cottage'. I felt wonderful; I still had my friend and all was well with the world.</p><p>I suppose that I should have expected something to go wrong, although I am of course nothing like as cynical as my friend. When he arrived back to Montague Street just over an hour later he positively <i>reeked</i> of violets. Thankfully that did not elicit the same sort of reaction I had to lilac-water, but I wondered why he smelled so.....</p><p>
  <i>No! Surely not?</i>
</p><p>“A Mrs. Joan Swindon”, he said sourly. “The original desperate housewife; she was undressing before I was even through the doorway, and was all over me when I was trying to examine her. And ye Gods, her perfume! I swear that it was killing the potted-plants in the room.”</p><p>I felt oddly relieved for some reason. Which was quite illogical, really.</p><p>“Would you like some of my bath salts?” I asked.</p><p>“I would!” he said fervently. “What is it with some women today? No sense of decorum at all.”</p><p>I smiled as he went to his room, and went to the bathroom to get the salts for him.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>We were to make the shift to Cramer Street in three weeks' time – Mrs. MacAndrew's cousin from three doors down, her fellow Scotswoman Mrs. Ferguson, was running the house for her during this time in between simpering at mew in a way that made those three weeks seem rather long ones! – and the main room would need a major tidying before we could even start packing. Well, one side of it would. That it just happened to have been my side was a complete coincidence.</p><p>“What about your papers?” Watson ventured. </p><p>I looked at the disaster area that was my desk. As I have said, I did not store pointless information and was prepared to research what I did need to know for each case, but even at this early stage in my career I was beginning to think that maybe I should catalogue some of my investigations, or at least place my notes in some sort of order.</p><p>“I have never got round to organizing them”, I sighed. “I suppose that I should have.”</p><p>“It might help in future cases?” he suggested.</p><p>I looked across at his own desk which was depressingly neat and tidy. It was annoying that I could not be organized enough to.....</p><p>“I could order them for you?” he offered. </p><p>I stared at him in surprise. He reddened.</p><p>“Unless of course there are things....”</p><p>“Watson?” I said softly. </p><p>“Yes?” </p><p>“Of course I trust <i>you.”</i></p><p>He blushed fiercely.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>By that evening I could see from my friend's expression that he was wondering if he had bitten off more than he could chew. I had gone out and purchases a number of large note-books and folders in which he said that he intended to categorize the people involved in the cases, but then I had had to leave when a message had arrived from LeStrade. </p><p>He looked even more stressed when I returned just over an hour later, although he brightened when he saw that I had brought a fish-and-chips supper, then brightened even more when he saw the bag of chocolate drops from the sweet-shop. </p><p>“LeStrade wished to consult me over the disappearance of Mrs. Farintosh's opal tiara”, I explained once we had finished eating. </p><p>He sighed, then gazed mournfully at the bag of chocolate drops. The now very empty bag of chocolate drops.</p><p>“She is the sister of Helena, Duchess of Montfort”, he said. “Her husband is something in the government, I know not what but it can only be a minor post as he is in the Lords.”</p><p>“I see that you are still not reading the 'Times' society-pages in the morning!” I teased. </p><p>He turned his scowl from the empty bag of sweets on to me.</p><p>“How did she lose her tiara?” he asked.</p><p>“It is all very strange”, I said. “She travelled down with her husband from Argyllshire two days ago. She took the afternoon train from Lachlan Hall Halt, a private station serving her house, through to Glasgow and thence the night sleeper to London. She definitely had the tiara on boarding the train at Glasgow as she wore it to the dining coach.”</p><p>“As ones does when having to dine among the riff-raff!” he muttered. </p><p>I smiled at his observation.</p><p>“Her compartment was locked while she was in the dining-car”, I said. “She returned to her coach, watched as her maid put the tiara away, then turned in for the night. She woke once during the night when her husband had to use the facilities, and took the opportunity to check on her tiara then. The following morning the maid woke her an hour prior to their arrival at Euston and Mrs. Farintosh checked again on her tiara, only to find it gone.”</p><p>“Did the train stop anywhere?” he asked.</p><p>“Not after when the tiara was last seen”, I said. “It was a Caledonian Railway train and the London &amp; North Western Railway, who took over at Carlisle and over whose metals much of the journey was accomplished, has latterly fitted water-troughs so engines can travel non-stop. The train did slow to forty miles per hour when using them and also to about twenty miles per hour for a stretch around Watford due to a distant signal, but it did not stop. She checked the time when she was woken by her husband and it was definitely <i>after</i> the stop for the change of locomotives at Carlisle.”</p><p>“Then how could the tiara have been stolen?” he asked. “I assume that everyone was searched at Euston?”</p><p>“Mr. Farintosh demanded it”, I said. “Mr. Charles Buttermere, one of the railway's longest-serving employees, had visited her in her coach after dinner and had checked if it was acceptable to lock everything up or if she needed to send to the dining coach for anything. She acceded and then went to bed. The tiara was definitely in her possession at that time, and after the train had made its only stop. Equally definitely it was not there the following morning.”</p><p>“Mr. Buttermere could have done it”, he ventured. </p><p>I shook my head.</p><p>“It was a private carriage”, I said, “so the Farintoshes had the key. Mr. Buttermere locked the door at their end of the dining-car and either she or her husband locked their door.”</p><p>“So that leaves only the people in her coach, then”, he said. </p><p>I nodded. </p><p>“The Farintosh coach only has one large compartment for passengers and two smaller ones for servants”, I said. “There is no way that anyone else could have accessed it during the journey and yet indubitably the tiara was stolen. Hence a ring is drawn around Mrs. Cecily Farintosh, her husband Andrew, her maid Miss Alice Bailey and her husband's valet Mr. Brian Lingard.”</p><p>“The husband?” he asked tentatively.</p><p>“Mr. Andrew Farintosh is fifty-one and you are right; he is an under-secretary in the War Office”, I said. “The lowest possible rank of government minister. Unfortunately he has a strong predilection for gambling; his family has already had to step in to clear his debts on at least one occasion. Most unusually his marriage to Mrs. Farintosh was only approved by her family on condition that she kept full control of her own finances and that her money returned to them upon her death. The couple have no children.”</p><p>“Still, motive”, he said. “And opportunity.”</p><p>“On the other hand it was Mr. Farintosh who was insistent about the police searching all of them at Euston.”</p><p>“What about Mrs. Farintosh herself?” he asked. “Was the tiara insured?”</p><p>I smiled at him.</p><p>“A very good point and well spotted”, I said, noting how he preened at the praise. “That is one reason that LeStrade is involved. Mr. Andrew Farintosh took out an insurance policy on it only last month - <i>to the value of five thousand pounds¹!”</i></p><p>His eyes widened. He could see that that was a lot of... motive.</p><p>“The maid?” he asked.</p><p>“A girl of good character, so her mistress claims”, I said. “Initial investigations seem to back that assessment. Alice Bailey, twenty-seven; she has been with Mrs. Farintosh for three years. She would seem to have had no motive, unless she were working with someone else.”</p><p>“The valet?” he asked.</p><p>“We are on shakier ground there”, I said. “Mr. Brian Lingard, thirty-six and has spent time in gaol for fraud. His family is connected to the Farintoshes through a marriage some generations back and Mr. Farintosh gave him his current post about twelve months ago. He has performed satisfactorily, his master said, although there was a small matter of some gold cuff-links going missing some months back. They were not particularly valuable but they were never recovered.”</p><p>“It is a big jump from cuff-links to a tiara”, he observed. “The problem seems to be one of opportunity. I mean, it is not as if one of them just threw the thing out of the window.”</p><p>I stared at him. As I have said before, for all that people sometimes (and especially in my later career) described him as a mere cipher, he was sometimes capable of hitting the nail squarely on the head. </p><p>“I think that we should send LeStrade a telegram”, I smiled. “Sometimes Watson, you amaze me!”</p><p>Chuckling, I left the room. He stared after me in bewilderment.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Two days later my friend and I were standing along with LeStrade in one of the sidings of the London &amp; North Western Railway Company at Euston. Before us was the infamous sleeper carriage. The sergeant showed us inside.</p><p>“On Mr. Farintosh's orders we went through the place from top to bottom, sir”, he said. “Even checked for secret compartments and the like.”</p><p>I sighed. I really wished that even good modern policemen like LeStrade would not default to the criminal story secret compartment and its ilk. I examined the area around the windows in the three compartments, which were exactly what I had expected them to be.</p><p>“Did you find out the information that I requested, LeStrade?” I asked. </p><p>The sergeant nodded and took out a notebook. </p><p>“All four of the suspects had travelled by train recently”, he said. “Three weeks back Mr. and Mrs. Farintosh stayed at a friend's house in Northampton; Miss Bailey and Mr. Lingard were dispatched to Lachlan Hall and the couple followed them last week.”</p><p>“Why did they return to London after only one week in Scotland?” Watson asked.</p><p>“One of her relatives had a birthday up there”, LeStrade said, “then one of his in the smoke. Both major ones and with people close to them; I checked but that was true.”</p><p>“Mr. Farintosh did not keep his valet?” Watson asked, clearly surprised. </p><p>I saw his point. Maids were one thing but using another man's valet was.... well, odd.</p><p>“It was Mr. Lingard's week off”, LeStrade explained, “and Miss Bailey's grandmother who lives near the Hall was ill so they were both sent on. The Argyllshire Police visited Lachlan Hall for me and said that as a mistress Mrs. Farintosh was seen as hard but fair while none of them thought much of her husband. Miss Bailey was seen as a good worker while Mr. Lingard was thought to be all right but too secretive and always a bit nervous. The Farintoshes returned to Scotland on the fifth, two days after that ship went down.”</p><p>“Together?” I asked. </p><p>LeStrade looked puzzled. </p><p>“I don't see what....”</p><p>“Were they together?” I pressed. </p><p>“No”, he said. “Mrs. Farintosh went to see a friend in West Suffolk – Newmarket – while Mr. Farintosh visited a distant relative of his in Blackpool. The each spent just one night before continuing their journeys.”</p><p>I smiled at that. Now I knew how this crime had been done, and more importantly, who had done it.</p><p>“Blackpool is accessed by a branch-line from the town of Preston?” I said.</p><p>LeStrade stared at me in confusion</p><p>“Yes”, he said at last. “Val and I go on holiday there most years.”</p><p>I thought for a moment. I still needed more proof, but I knew where I might find it.</p><p>“I need to see <i>outside</i> the coach”, I said.</p><p>“Outside?” Watson asked, puzzled.</p><p>“Yes”, I said. “Come!”</p><p>I led the way and we were soon outside the compartment. There was a raised plank walkway presumably for people to clean the coach windows and I sprang easily up onto it. I stared around the two window frames then smiled.</p><p>
  <i>Jackpot!</i>
</p><p>“The case is nearly complete”, I said.</p><p>They both looked at me in amazement. I did not know why; it seemed quite obvious.</p><p>“LeStrade”, I said, “did you bring in Mr. Lingard as I asked?”</p><p>“I did, sir. Is he....?”</p><p>“We have a call to make before we speak to him”, I said. “Let us not keep him waiting!”</p><p>I led the way out of the siding, catching my friends exchanging looks of frustration. Then it was to the nearest hardware shop where I purchased a single bamboo cane, before we went to task Mr. Brian Lingard with what I knew he had done.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>“Mr. Lingard!”</p><p>I smacked the cane down on the desk in front of the valet. As I had known he would, he turned a deathly shade of white. </p><p>“Sir, please! I beg of you!”</p><p>I felt sorry for him given what I knew, but he was our only chance of recovering the stolen item and even if unwillingly he had played his part in this villainy. I took out a notebook and pencil, then slid them across to him.</p><p>“All is known”, I said firmly. “Your only hope of avoiding a return to gaol is to write the address – you know the one to which I refer – in that book within the next sixty seconds.”</p><p>“I.... I cannot....”</p><p>“If you do”, I said, rather more quietly, “then I give you my word as a gentleman that I will do what I can for you. But only if you help me <i>now.”</i></p><p>I could see the exact moment when the wretched man broke. His hands shaking, he somehow managed to write something in the notebook. I took it and ushered us all out of the room.</p><p>“LeStrade, get a warrant then take as many men as you can to this address and search it from top to bottom”, I said. “With luck you will not have to look too hard. My belief is that the person there will not be expecting to have their house searched and will not have hidden the object that recently came into their possession.”</p><p>“What is that, sir?” the sergeant asked. </p><p>I smiled.</p><p>“Mrs. Farintosh's opal tiara!”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>It was a couple of hours later and the police-station had a visitor, one Mrs. Cecily Farintosh. She was a formidable lady who sailed rather than walked into the room, and her face brightened when she saw what was waiting for her on the table.</p><p>“You have found it!” she boomed. “That is wonderful!”</p><p>I wondered idly if she was connected in some way to my sister Hope, as I saw both Watson and LeStrade wince at her volume.</p><p>“Thanks to this gentleman”, LeStrade said gruffly. “Mr. Sherlock Holmes.”</p><p>“Then you shall most definitely have the reward that I was going to offer!” the lady said, thankfully in a reduced volume. “I am so happy!”</p><p>I escorted her to a chair and I could see both my friends had worked out that I did not share our visitor's joy. </p><p>“There is, my lady, the not unimportant matter of how the tiara was taken”, I said carefully. “And by whom.” </p><p>The lady's face darkened.</p><p>“I am <i>certain</i> that it was not my dear Alice!” she declared stoutly.</p><p>“Your maid is quite innocent”, I reassured her. </p><p>She smiled.</p><p>“Unlike your husband”, I added. </p><p>That got rid of the smile.</p><p>“Impossible!” she declared. “Why, the policemen at Euston searched all of us most thoroughly, Andrew included. He even asked them to.....” </p><p>She suddenly paled. </p><p>“You do not think that I.....”</p><p>“Madam, I am sure of your innocence”, I said firmly. “Unhappily, I am equally sure of your husband's guilt.”</p><p>“I do not see how he could have done it”, Watson said out.</p><p>I took the chair opposite the lady.</p><p>“This was a most ingenious crime”, I said, “and had it not been for the good doctor here I might not have realized just how it had been accomplished.”</p><p>“Me?” Watson exclaimed. </p><p>I nodded.</p><p>“When we were discussing the case”, I said, “your exact words were, 'it is not as if one of them just threw the thing out of the window'.”</p><p>“From a moving train?” LeStrade said incredulously. “What, he had someone waiting by the tracks? How the blazes did he manage that?”</p><p>I shook my head.</p><p>“In the pitch dark and on a train which, if it were just a few minutes off schedule, could be miles north or south of a fixed point?” I said. “No, he was cleverer than that. Do you remember Mr. Farintosh's visit to Blackpool shortly prior to the theft?”</p><p>Both men nodded.</p><p>“One of the wonders of our age”, I said, “is the travelling post-office. Using a system of hooks and nets, mail-bags can be brought onto the train and taken off without stopping.”</p><p>I could see that they had got it.</p><p>“Your husband familiarized himself with the system”, I explained to a stunned Mrs. Farintosh, “and how the night sleeper always exchanged bags at Preston Station, the junction for Blackpool and several mid-Lancashire towns. He made sure to wake you after Carlisle, knowing that you would likely check on your precious tiara and ready to prompt you so to do if you did not. That was important as otherwise there was the chance that the theft might have taken place during the locomotive changeover at Carlisle, when the London &amp; North Western engines replaced the Caledonian ones. Once you were asleep he slipped the tiara into his valet's room, having used that gentleman's criminal past to coerce him into assisting with this crime. Mr. Lingard placed it in a parcel that his master had prepared earlier, and at the appropriate time hung it out of the window on a bamboo cane hook. When the station staff at Preston came to collect the bags they would not think it odd that one parcel had somehow slipped out.”.</p><p>“The marks on the coach!” Watson exclaimed.</p><p>“Yes”, I said. “I had hoped that there might be a small splinter of wood inside the coach but your husband had cleaned the area well. However the slash of the breaking bamboo cane left a scratch mark on the outside of the coach, exactly where I knew to look for it.”</p><p>“So my own husband stole from me!” Mrs. Farintosh said heavily.</p><p>“I am sorry”, I said sincerely. “He posted it to an old servant of his who fortunately for us lived in London; I obtained the address from Mr. Lingard earlier today which is how you now have your tiara back. May I be so bold as to ask a favour, madam?”</p><p>“Of course!” she said. “Anything!”</p><p>“Please can you provide a reference for Mr. Lingard?” I asked. “I know that he played his part in this but he was coerced, and I would not like for this to ruin the rest of his life.”</p><p>She smiled at me.</p><p>“I am so grateful for all you did”, she said. “Yes. I shall provide you such a reference. I shall be staying at my sister's London house in Grosvenor Square if I am needed again, sergeant.”</p><p>“I am afraid we shall have to keep the tiara for now, my lady, at least until Mr. Farintosh confesses”, LeStrade said. “But I promise you that we shall keep it safe, and we shall return it as soon as possible.”</p><p>“I know that it is safe”, she smiled. “That is enough for me.”</p><p>We all bowed as she stood up and sailed majestically from the room (although not, judging from a certain friend's pout, before sending a simper at one of us who was neither a policeman nor a doctor!). LeStrade scratched his head.</p><p>“Why a bamboo cane?” he asked. “He must have known that it would break.”</p><p>“He was counting on it”, I said. “There was the danger that in breaking, the rod used might smash against the window of the coach. If the wood had been too strong, sergeant, it might well have broken that window impacting as it did at a speed of several dozen miles per hour. Even if Mrs. Farintosh had heard something against the window she would likely have assumed that it was just a stone that had been thrown up.”</p><p>“I see”, he said. “Ah well, suppose I'd better get round to Mr. Farintosh. Don't want to keep a gentleman waiting!”</p><p>He left, and we followed him.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>Mrs. Farintosh immediately sued for divorce from her husband, which was quickly granted. Mr. Andrew Farintosh served a decade of hard labour for his crime and upon his release had the decency to take himself off to southern Africa from where he was never heard of again. Mrs. Farintosh did provide me with the reference for Mr. Lingard that I asked for (along with a rather alarming invitation to visit her Scottish estate!), and two months later Mr. Brian Lingard had a new post as a footman in one of London's top clubs where he did very well for himself.</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div><p>
  <i>Notes:</i>
  <br/>
  <i>1) At least £475,000 ($600,000) at 2021 prices, probably more given that the value of jewellery has outstripped inflation.</i>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>MDCCCLXXVIII</p>
</div>
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